


The Dying of the Light

by Cunien



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Demonic Possession, Demons, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-24 14:45:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1608926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cunien/pseuds/Cunien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>It comes like the first few skittering rocks before a landslide, the first panicked moments of despair, because he knows how it gets in and he knows how it feels and oh God, how broken Porthos must have been by the shades of his past to let it take him.</em>
</p><p>Two weeks ago the Cardinal sent his Red Guards to investigate unusual reports coming from a small town outside of Paris, but nothing has been heard of them since. The Musketeers ride out to discover what's become of the the Cardinal's men, while a dark power means to use a secret to fracture them apart. Set after the series finale.</p><p>Angst, possession, hurt/comfort, supernatural gubbins. Musketeers vs. demons fic. Yeah, demons.</p><p>WARNING: graphic imagery, swearing, violence, blood and gore. Full house! Hooray!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wise Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks ago the Cardinal sent his Red Guards to investigate unusual reports coming from a small town outside of Paris, but nothing has been heard of them since. The Musketeers ride out to discover what's become of the the Cardinal's men, while a secret threatens to fracture them apart.
> 
> NOTE: I've replaced the original chapter 1, which was a teaser that plopped out of my head before I ever knew it could grow to be a story and is now inserted later on in the narrative. So this chapter is entirely new.

**_In the darkness, in the fire, something stretches. There’s a prickle like nails dragged across bare skin, but that can’t be, because it doesn’t have skin. It hears its name being called, like a whisper in a thundering tempest of clamouring voices -_ help me _and_ curse you _and_ fuck yes _and_ God, God no, _and it laughs at that, long and low until the earth shakes and cracks, and it is pulled from the nothingness in one long rapturous, shuddering breath._**

 

***

 

**

 

*

 

Porthos flickers a glance over towards the benches, where Aramis sits cleaning his arquebus with a fastidiousness that’s excessive, even for a man who likes to expound that a soldier should treat his weapons with the same care and devotion as he would a lover.

Something’s going on, something that Aramis won’t tell him, and it spikes a hot burr of rage at the pit of his stomach. They’re usually so honest with each other, and even when they can’t find the right words, they can _tell_. A glance, a shrug, there’s an eloquence beyond words in that, and they share it all. 

But not anymore, it seems.

And worse, it’s clear that Athos knows what’s going on. Porthos wouldn’t expect more from him, stoic as he usually is, but the thought that Aramis would tell Athos and not him sets his nerves jangling. D’Artagnan he’s not so sure about - the boy could either be oblivious or far more skillful at lying than the other two. Still, Porthos can’t help but feel that familiar rise of his hackles. The sense of being deceived, excluded, is the one he hates the most, and in his frustration he can hear the whole world laughing at him in his naivety.

He could just ask Aramis, nicely, when they’ve drunk a little and the other man has reached that point where he can’t stop talking. Or perhaps not so nicely, pushed against a wall with Porthos’ fist to his face. But something in Porthos makes him shy away from the thought: because he shouldn’t _have_ to, because if he asked and Aramis refused, or worse, lied, Porthos doesn’t know what he would do.

The big Musketeer huffs a breath and concentrates on his opponent once more - d’Artagnan is circling him, looking for a line of attack. Porthos bobs on his knees, the pleasing and familiar sense of muscles flexing and ready, elbows bent, hands curled in loose fists and raised. He flicks his chin in invitation, grins in a way he’s been reliably informed is infuriating.

Perhaps he throws d’Artagnan over his shoulder and to the ground with a little more force than necessary, but the rush of adrenalin and movement buzzing through his veins makes Porthos feel a little steadier, a little more sure of himself.

He looks over towards Aramis, but the man isn’t watching. Porthos’ brows lower in a frown.

He’s reaching out a hand to help the boy up when Athos descends the steps from Treville’s office, the Captain at his heels.

“Get ready to leave,” Athos says, and there’s something hard in his voice. “We’ll be gone for some days. Aramis and Porthos, leave by the Porte St Denis, d’Artagnan and I will go by the Porte St Honore. We’ll meet outside the tavern in Clichy. Make sure you’re not followed.”

“Followed by who?” d’Artagnan frowns. 

“Anybody. Be watchful,” Treville says.

“Are you going to tell us what this is about?” Aramis asks casually, not looking up from where he cleans his gun.

“When we get to Clichy.”

“Good enough for me,” Porthos says, wanting Aramis to disagree with him, wanting to push. The other man just shrugs and collects his things.

*

The ride from the city gate to the small village of Clichy is passed in silence. Aramis tries to make conversation every now and then, but Porthos’ mood grows darker every step they take from Paris. Besides, why should he make idle chatter when Aramis himself is so disinclined to talk, with this great secret between them, whatever it is? 

The sky to the west is dark and ominous, lowering thunder clouds with edges trailing wet and frayed. The warm spring afternoon in Paris seems further and further away as the minutes pass, and Porthos feels something like the clouds sitting at the edge of his mind, threatening and full of darkness. His shivers, hears his heart thud loudly in his ears.

After forty minutes or so it begins to rain, and Porthos pulls low his hat, wraps his cloak a little tighter around himself. Either Aramis has got the message that Porthos does not care to talk, or the dark sky they’re heading towards has had a similar effect on his mood, and he lapses into silence. 

By the time they reach Clichy Porthos is soaked through and wants nothing more than some warm wine and a fire to dry his boots beside, but it seems this won’t be the case. The other two men are already waiting for them outside the tavern, and as they approach Athos turns his horse and heads for the road out of town, bidding the others to follow.

“So?” d’Artagnan prompts after a few minutes of silence. 

Athos looks around cautiously, but they’re out in the open and there’s no one around to hear.

“Treville has been approached by the Cardinal. There seem to have been some...unsettling reports coming from a village called Avernes, about a day’s ride from Paris.”

“Unsettling?” Aramis queries.

Athos takes a moment, and looks straight ahead when he speaks. “Overnight crop failures, unseasonable weather, lightning storms, cattle deaths. The villagers awoke one morning to find all the fish in the lake laying dead at the surface. The earth quakes. There have been reports of…” he quirks his lip, but his voice is steady, “...a rain of toads.”

Aramis’ short burst of laughter makes Porthos jump, his horse startling. He turns around to glare but the other man only smiles. “The Ten Plagues of Avernes?”

“Don’t jest, Aramis,” Porthos says angrily, “You of all people.”

“Because I have faith, it follows that I should believe in everything?” Aramis asks.

Porthos dislikes the look of teasing laughter in his friend’s eyes. “There’s things you don’t know about, out there,” Porthos says, voice grim. “There’s things you’ve never seen.”

“I should hope so,” Aramis smiles. “I like new things.”

Porthos riles, but is cut off by Athos. “Gentlemen. Regardless, this is serious. The villagers petitioned the Cardinal, the Cardinal sent his men, who have not been heard of since.”

“Red Guards? Likely lying drunk in the local tavern,” d’Artagnan comments.

“So our orders come from the Cardinal?” Aramis asks, disbelieving.

“Our orders come from Captain Treville. And they will not be questioned, no matter how ridiculous you think they are, Aramis.” Athos spurs his horse and trots ahead, calling the discussion to a close.

* 

They take the longer, quieter roads west, avoiding villages and towns where they can. Athos casts a look behind him every few miles though there seems to be no one in sight, much less following them. The rain stops just as the light is beginning to dim towards dusk, but the air is hot and heavy and stifling, the temperature rising slowly until Porthos is sticky and uncomfortable in his damp clothing.

The path that winds through the woods looks like it hasn’t been used regularly in some time, the rutted wheel tracks either side of a strip of tall waving grass beginning to be reclaimed by the undergrowth.

It’s a surprise then to find a horse grazing unattended by the side of the track, and in the dimming light it looks pale and ghostly. Dipping its head low to tear at the thick weeds growing lush after the recent rains, it seems utterly unconcerned.

Porthos looks about - there is no sign of the horses owner, but there’s something still and strange about the forest. It might be in his mind, but the sky seems to darken, for a moment, as though a shadow just raced across the lowering sun, and the world seems slightly dimmer.

Athos dismounts and crosses to the lone horse.

“The Cardinal’s mark,” he says after a moment, holding up a paper found in the saddlebag. His mouth is grim and set.

“One of the Red Guards?” Aramis asks, shifting in his saddle to look about for the horse’s owner.

“It would seem so,” Athos agrees. He’s about to speak again when something seems to catch his eye, and he crosses to the other side of the road, beckons silently for the others to follow.

Porthos dismounts and checks his pistols, hand resting heavily on the comforting weight of his sword’s basket hilt at his waist.

Just off the road is a clearing, but as soon as they step into it Athos stops short, and Porthos almost plows into his back. There’s a man on the ground, wearing the red and black of the Cardinal’s guards. He’s stretched out on his side as if curled into sleep - his eyes are closed and there’s a bedroll laid out beneath him - but the crows are fat and bold in the clearing and the air hangs thick with the smell of old blood. 

The man’s throat is gaping wide and dark, skin puckered at the edges of the clean slash, deep enough for Porthos to see a glint of bone amongst the meat within. 

A gunshot cracks through the clearing, and Porthos jumps at the sudden noise. One of the crows falls to the ground with a tangle of crushed feathers, the others hopping and squawking about. Aramis drops the pistol with a curse and fumbles for the one hanging at his other side. He shudders, skin sallow, and it’s only when Athos puts a steady hand against the flinch of his shoulder that he makes a broken sound and clutches at the cross hanging in the fold of his jacket.

“Get them away,” Aramis says, high and desperate, “Fuck...fucking crows…”

“It’s alright,” Athos soothes, and there’s that note of steady command in his voice. “Aramis it’s alright. You’re here with us.”

The look in Aramis’ eyes, the thin rattle of his breath hits Porthos with an awful sort of familiarity, though it’s been a long time since they’ve been here: five years ago there were nights when they had needed to hold Aramis close and tell him again and again that he was not in Savoy anymore.

“Athos…” 

Aramis’ hand comes up to grip tightly at Athos’ own hand, on his shoulder, and there’s something desperate and compulsive in the gesture. “Come away,” Athos says. “Come away, now.”

“What was…” d’Artagnan asks, as Athos leads Aramis back to the road. 

Porthos shakes his head, turning to follow the others, and brushes past the younger man. He has no patience for explanations now.

“Porthos tell me-”

“Savoy, alright?” Porthos snaps, throwing the words over his shoulder. “He doesn’t want to talk about it, and neither do we.”

There’s a stubborn jut to d’Artagnan’s chin when they get back to the horses, and Porthos can see something like anger in his stilted movements, his dark eyes.

“Should we go to the nearest town? Ask around?”

“We can’t attract attention,” Athos says, simply.

“But we can’t just leave him here,” d’Artagnan says, incredulous, “We should bury him, at least,” the boy says, looking between the other Musketeers. Aramis is readjusting his saddle with his back turned, but the tight hunch of his shoulders is evident.

“With what?” Porthos asks.

“I don’t know!” d’Artagnan snaps, “But what if it were your friend? Or...someone you knew.” The boy colours angrily, “If it were someone you knew, dead on the road.”

“We’ll come back,” Athos says, and catches d’Artagnan’s eye. The boy nods, after a moment, and goes to led the dead man’s horse off the road, stopping to cut a mark to the side of a nearby tree so that they might find the place again on their return.

Athos takes the dead man’s cloak from where it lies hooked across the saddle of his horse, and heads back to the clearing to cover the body.

*

The road is too wide for four men to ride abreast, but Porthos is grateful that while he stays close to Aramis’ side d’Artagnan is ahead, and Athos a steady presence at their rear, calming Porthos’ nerves a little. Aramis won’t let his eyes drift from the road ahead, and after a while Porthos feels the anger creep back to replace the concern for his friend. He wonders if Aramis would talk about it to Athos, if he were the one riding alongside him, if Porthos were not here at all.

“Athos,” d’Artagnan asks over his shoulder, and the darkening light seems to make his voice sound closer than it is, younger than it is. “Do you think whoever killed that Red Guard had something to do with whatever’s happening in Avernes?”

“A man can slit another’s throat,” Aramis says, breaking his silence with a voice that’s curiously blank. “Just a man. We’re still miles away from Avernes.”

“Well then, who would want to kill the Cardinal’s men?”

If Porthos were in a better mood he would snort at that, since the Red Guards are probably the most disliked regiment in France, let alone Paris, and they themselves have killed a few in their time. But his skin prickles with fear, and he knows that he would pick the Cardinal’s guards over whatever he is beginning to suspect might be waiting for them ahead.

“It may have been any disagreement. He may even have been killed by one of his fellows,” Athos states.

“Who’ve disappeared rather than face justice back in Paris,” Aramis’ voice is only just beginning to ease out into something normal.

“You don’t believe that, do you Athos?” D’Artagnan asks. The group has drawn steadily closer as the night descended, and now they’re close enough for Porthos to see the intent look on d’Artagnan’s face. He directs his question to Athos again, and it’s clear it’s his words that d’Artagnan needs to hear.

“When we get to Avernes we will make enquiries,” the older Musketeer says simply, after a moment.

There’s something like annoyance on d’Artagnan’s face for a moment. He frowns, and turns back to the road, letting his horse widen the gap between them again as his heels dig into its flanks, just perceptibly.

They push on until the cool of night has settled over them, and stop sometime before midnight. There are no houses within sight, and Porthos suspects Athos would deem a tavern out of the question in any case, so they make camp in the woods a mile or so outside Pierrelaye. Porthos struggles to start a blaze in the damp wood but manages a small, smoky fire after a while.

“You’ve been too long in polite company, friend,” Aramis teases, and the forced tone of his voice almost makes Porthos cringe. “There was a time when Porthos could set something ablaze almost just by looking at it,” Aramis explains to d’Artagnan.

Porthos gives him a look that might, indeed, lead to his immediately bursting into flames, rises to his feet and moves to the edge of the circle of meagre firelight. “Going to get more wood.”

Away from the camp the still of the forest settles in around him like something suffocating and heavy.

"You seem out of sorts." 

Porthos jumps at the sound, hadn’t seen Athos follow him into the trees. He scowls and hefts the firewood in his arms. 

He doesn’t want to tell Athos that his disquiet is growing with every minute, that there’s anger hot and hard at the bottom of his throat threatening to choke him, that something like fear is buzzing through his veins. Fear, real and suffocating, the likes of which he hasn’t felt in many years: fear of losing his friends, fear he might already have lost them for reasons he’s yet to work out. But a child’s nighttime fear too, of the dark and the things that lurk there. He doesn’t want to go to Avernes, wants to grab the others and force them all back to Paris.

"Do you believe we might find something... _other_ at work in this village?" Athos asks carefully, voice deceptively light.

"Do you?"

"I have found the world to be a surprising place. Often unpleasantly so,” he says grimly. “I try to keep an open mind." 

Athos quirks an eyebrow in question at Porthos.

"In the Court," Porthos swallows, "I've seen things I couldn't explain. People get desperate..."

"They look for help."

Porthos nods. "Not everyone has Aramis' faith in God."

"Hmm,” Athos agrees, bending to reach for a broken branch, hefting its weight in his hand. “You’ve hardly spoken to him. Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

"Are _you_?" Porthos counters. 

Something hard and impenetrable closes in behind Athos' eyes, and Porthos feels the anger swell and flicker in him.

“There’s nothing to tell,” Athos says, with a shrug, and heads back through the darkened trees towards the little firefly glow of the camp.

Porthos does not sleep that night. He sits awake in the long hours of darkness, starting at every pop of the fire and afraid that should he close his eyes, his friends will be gone when he opens them once more.

***


	2. Good Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Musketeers continue on the road to Avernes, but it seems something is expecting them, and as the tension mounts the cracks begin to widen between the Inseparables...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thankyou for coming back for chapter 2, and for all of you who read the first little mind dump I left a while back which has been replaced by chapter 1, and commented asking for more. You are all brilliant.
> 
> I feel I should point out that this is going to get pretty dark. But, Inseparables, remember? Trust in our boys. 
> 
> There are also some pretty nasty bits up ahead - I’m trying to make it vivid without being gory for the sake of it, but just to warn you that there’s a little bit of corpsey stuff headed your way, and some threats that I can only refer to as vaguely _suggestive_ in later chapters. I've upped the rating to "mature" to be safe, but if anyone thinks the fic could benefit from certain warnings please please do say so. I’m fairly new in these parts, so provided you don’t shout at me and make me cry I’m happy to add tags/ratings/warnings.

The morning dawns with a watery pale sun, the air still somehow hot and heavy. Athos wakes and nudges at the others as Porthos blinks the sleepless night from his eyes, feeling gritty and uncomfortable all over. He tips his water skin in a quick burst over his head and down his back, letting the coolness wash away some of the tired ache.

After breaking their fast on dried meat and a little bread and water, they move out, Porthos finding comfort in the familiarity of orders and the simple soldierly tasks of being out on the road. Mounting his horse, he can’t help the muscle memory from slipping him back to campaigns fought with Athos and Aramis, living alongside each other for weeks at a time until they were as familiar as breathing, and coming back to separate lodgings in Paris felt like losing a limb. He wonders if they’ll ever know that again - if the other two ever felt it, like him, for him. Wonders if it all might be beyond repair, now.

They resume their same positions as before, d’Artagnan moving on ahead with a tightness to the set of his back and shoulders. Though Athos would normally take lead, he seems content to let the younger man do the honour for now, taking up the rear with his constant backwards glances at the road behind them.

After a few miles d’Artagnan gives a low whistle up ahead, and slows his horse to a stop.

“This isn’t right,” he says when Porthos trots up beside him, scowling at the silence that greets his words.

The body is hanging from the bough of an old oak tree that stretches out right over the road, creaking back and forth a little in the faint breeze. Face distorted, there’s a dark line cut around the neck where the rope bruised in the man’s last struggling moments. His eyes bulge wide, tongue black and extended.

D’Artagnan dismounts, hands his reins to Aramis, and sets about climbing the tree to cut the man down without a word. Shuffling out across the branch with knees clamped tight, he takes his main gauche and reaches to saw at the rope. There’s a horrible thud as the body hits the ground, dead leaves and an awful stench disturbed by the movement.

Porthos watches as d’Artagnan covers his mouth with the back of his hand, bending to pull the red and black cloak over the man’s face, and they continue on without comment. 

It’s only after a few steps that Porthos realises Athos is not following them. He turns his horse slightly, twists to see the older man staring transfixed at the body, the rough line of rope that snakes out from beneath the cloak and ends in a frayed curl. His face is utterly blank but Porthos can see the harsh movement of his chest as he tries to calm his breathing. Athos’ hands shake as he fumbles at the reins of his horse

“Athos,” Porthos calls, tries to keep his tone void of any concern, or pity, because he knows the other man could not bear that. “Let’s go, yeah?”

Athos lifts his head in a tight snap, and looks at Porthos for a moment as though he doesn’t know who he is. He blinks slowly, nods once and spurs on his horse to join them.

*

At mid-morning they stop to water their horses and ease their legs, though they can’t be more than a few miles from Avernes now. Porthos notices D’Artagnan watching them in silence as they dismount, Aramis crossing to the side of the road to piss, Athos twitching the chain tight about his neck, looking blankly out into woods.

“It’s not right,” d’Artagnan repeats quietly when Porthos comes to stand beside him. “I’m not an infant. I know when things aren’t right.” He looks angry. A swell of relief spreads through Porthos’ belly, and he feels a little less alone at that.

“Do they think they need to lie to me?” the boy mutters, but he flinches away when Porthos tries to grasp his shoulder. 

“Sooner we get to Avernes, sooner we get back to Paris,” Porthos says, moving back over to adjust the saddle on his horse.

He feels as though he’s trapped in some game, just a pawn to be moved around, powerless to avoid the inevitable as they move towards whatever awaits them in this god-forsaken village. Porthos wonders if the others are beginning to suspect, as he is, that there is some greater design here: it seems uncanny that the two dead men on the road have been killed in the specific ways that would provoke a reaction from two of their number.

Porthos pulls in a breath against the ragged fear that flutters in his chest. He shuts his mind down against the thought, because he doesn’t want to think that there may be a body ahead for him.

A sudden squall of rain moves in as the crest the hill and see the small town of Avernes laid out beneath them. Hunching llow in their saddles, they take the winding path down onto the main street of little houses that lean across the road at each other, gabled eaves almost touching. 

It’s after they’ve moved into the town proper, just past the first few buildings when Porthos blinks away the rain in his eyes enough to realise that the dark lump ahead of them in the road is another body, another Red Guard.

This one is an older man, perhaps fifty or so. He lies sodden in a pool of water and mud, a gunshot wound to his gut, only the faintest hint of red still spread out around him in the sheeting rain.

D’Artagnan makes a sound low in his throat. “He….looks like my father,” the boy feels the need to explain, a tremor to his voice betraying the square set to his shoulders. “Don’t tell me this is normal!” he shouts, directing his words at Athos. His horse spins and shies, nervous. 

“What’s going on? Don’t lie to me, Athos!”

The thunder grumbles low and loud in the heavy grey sky above them.

“Shut up, boy,” Aramis calls dismissively, “You’re not helping.”

“Fuck you,” d’Artagnan answers, and Porthos can’t help but admire the boy his restraint because he recognises the rage lying jagged and hot behind his red-rimmed eyes. “Fuck you, Aramis.” 

The rain stops, as suddenly as it began, and d’Artagnan is left shivering angrily. They watch as the boy dismounts and tries to drag the body to the side of the road, but the mud and the wet clothes aren’t helping. Athos dismounts and moves to help him but d’Artagnan fairly growls at the offer, finally succeeding in moving the body to the side of the road, in the lee of a gabled house. The younger man covers the body with the dead man’s cloak, and there’s something like reverence, naked and unabashed on his face, enough to make Porthos look away.

D’artagnan takes hold of his horse’s reins and continues on, and Porthos spurs his horse to follow, trying to keep his gaze forwards, hears the wet sucking noise of hooves behind him as the others follow through the mud.

Porthos’ fear has grown like a rising tide inside him now. He tries to keep his heart beating steady and calm, but the horrible anticipation is almost too much to bear. He tries to reason with himself: the Red Guards have been killed in ways that mimicked the most awful memories of his friends, but Porthos’ most awful memory was the death of his mother, from sickness when he was five years old. A slow, steady death, weeks of watching the only person he knew and trusted fade away into a terrible end of a sweat-shaking night, the smell of vomit and blood still vivid in his mind despite the fact he can't remember her face, anymore. There is no way whoever killed these men could hope to recreate that particular death.

It doesn’t make him feel any better though.

“The tavern,” Athos says, as they move down the street and into the deserted square. Porthos wonders if it’s the rain that’s driven everyone inside, or something else. There’s something dead about the town, something stagnant and horrible.

Inside the tavern is quiet and dark. There are cups of wine standing half-drunk, and all the candles have been left to burn unchecked, slumped into hardened pools of wax that drip to the rushes on the stone floor. Porthos stands before a table where playing cards lay discarded beside a sizeable spread of coins.

“Someone left in a hurry,” Aramis says, because Porthos can’t summon the words to speak and Aramis always did talk when he was nervous.

A floorboard creaks above them, and Athos shoots a look at the ceiling, throwing out an arm as a call for silence. He takes out his pistol, and the others follow suit.

Upstairs is equally as deserted, but here Athos points silently at the speckle of dark spots on the floorboards. There’s a handprint brush of old blood stark against the white-washed wall at the corner of a corridor, and Porthos puts out his hand to ghost along the cracked red, thinks how an injured man might grab the surface for support.

The trail of blood leads to a door at the end of a corridor, half open. Athos flattens himself against the wood, and shoots a look around, gun ready. Porthos feels the adrenaline flutter like something living in his breast, watches the tight line of Athos’ neck, before the other man leans at the door with his shoulder and steps through.

The man sits huddled against a wall striped with bloody handprints, as though he’d fallen and tried to raise himself up there. He looks at them with eyes tired and heavy, and his lips are a grey-blue. The blood darkens the floor around him. He's not a Red Guard - a villager, the tavern owner perhaps. 

Aramis goes to kneel beside him, checking his wounds, and looks back at them once to shake his head grimly.

“Who did this?” Athos asks, lowering himself to one knee beside the man.

“Jacques…” the man says, and his voice is a harsh rasp. “My brother…”

“What happened?”

“He...the thing…we quarrelled….” the man blinks heavily, “We never quarrel...”

“Where is everyone?” Athos asks. 

Aramis shoots him a look, and beckons at d’Artagnan, “Fetch some wine, quickly.”

“All gone,” the man says, and coughs a bright ribbon of blood from his mouth. “It came. They left. Or died. Oh God,” he whimpers.

“What is it? Where is it?” Porthos asks, too loud, and the sound of his voice surprises him.

“The church,” the man says, “Oh, God…”

D’Artagnan appears with the wine, and Aramis stoops to help the man drink a little. He looks at Athos, and something passes between them there that Porthos doesn’t want to think about. Athos nods once, and Aramis squeeze the injured man’s shoulder, getting to his feet.

Porthos turns with a sickened tightening of his stomach and moves out into the hallway, feeling the ground lurch beneath his feet. He closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath, tries to tell himself that he is in a battle just like any other, that he cannot let fear or anger conquer him here. He’s never been one to flinch away from such things, but here in this place he can’t bear to watch. The man is as good as dead, he tells himself, and what’s left for him now is a long few hours of fear and pain, or, the alternative…

Aramis and d’Artagnan join him in the hallway, unable to catch each other’s gaze. It’s a moment before Athos comes out of the room, shutting the door behind him, something tight and closed off in his eyes.

"Your hands," Porthos hears himself say, dimly. Athos looks to his fingers, speckled red with a spray of blood, and wipes them against his breeches.

“This fucking town,” d’Artagnan mumbles, and his face is pale and set.

Outside the sun has appeared once more, though it’s a thin and pale thing that does nothing to lift their spirits. Porthos is untying his horse when his gaze wanders into the middle of the square, where an old well sits amongst some patchy weeds.

Something shifts in him, because he should be shocked, but he isn’t, and that’s the worst thing of all. Porthos wants to look about, because he’s sure the dead man was not there in the centre of the square when they’d entered the tavern, which means whoever did this is nearby. But even so he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from it.

It’s not obvious how the Red Guard died - throttled perhaps - but the body is propped against the walls of the stone well, its knees hooked high against the constraint of the iron bar that connects the shackles about its ankles, wrists and throat. 

Porthos had heard as a child of the restraints used for the more difficult slaves, the ones who would not accept the iron-clad certainty of their fate. He makes himself walk over to the dead man, makes himself _look_ because this was a man who was born and lived and should not have died like this, no matter who he was. 

His throat tries to close tight against the panic as his mind imagines the desperation of immobility, of not even being able to stand, let alone defend yourself or the people you cared for. 

He rubs his wrists unconsciously, trying somehow to remind himself that he was born free, that he is not shackled and will die - gladly and bloody and a hundred times over - before anyone tries to take away his freedom.

Porthos wants to scream and rage at his brothers to say something, but they stand mute, and he feels something brittle and sharp shatter inside of him.

***


	3. Wild Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Musketeers find evidence of a dark ritual in the church of Avernes, and Athos must come clean about his orders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next were meant to be one chapter, but got to be so long I had to split them into two. All that talking, you see. Arguing, exposition and gore bulk up your word count, it seems - I wish I'd known this when writing school essays.
> 
> Hope you’re all still with me, here we go...

The church huddles on a low hill above the town of Avernes, a small stone thing that looks bleak under the curtain of clouds dipped low and heavy with rain. They ride as far as they can before the horses begin to shy and skitter nervously, forcing the Musketeers to abandon them to walk the last hundred meters or so.

Porthos palms the grip of his pistol and loosens his sword a little in its sheath, ready to be drawn. From where the church stands he can see the town square, the dark shape of the well behind which the dead man still lies shackled. Without a blacksmith or any means to break his chains they’d had no choice but to leave him there, for now, and Porthos feels the tight coil of fear and anger twist inside him at the thought. 

He doesn’t look at the others as they walk silently to the church door that stands half open and gaping.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark as they step through, and the heavy incensed air is mingled sickeningly with the scent of blood.

_“Hostia puta,”_ he hears Aramis mutter behind him.

On the floor near the altar is painted a broad white five-pointed star, enclosed within a circle crammed tight with spidery symbols that make Porthos’ skin crawl just to look at them. For a moment he thinks he can hear screaming, very far away, and shakes his head tightly to clear it. 

At the center of the star there is a mess of red which Porthos thinks might have been a man, once.

“Is that…”

There’s a muffled sound beside them and Porthos turns to see d’Artagnan slip and brace himself against a wooden pew.

“Oh Jesus” he says, staring wide-eyed at something near his feet. “I think I just stepped on an ear.”

Athos bends over something on the floor, but Porthos can’t make out what he’s doing. He stands a few moments later with something small and glinting in his hand.

“A ring?” Porthos asks.

“Where did you find it?” Aramis’ face is pale but his tone is level.

“On a hand,” Athos replies grimly. “I recognise it.”

“The _hand?_ ” d’Artagnan asks, appalled.

Athos raises an eyebrow. “The ring. It’s a family sigil, Martineau, I believe.”

“Yes,” Aramis agrees, “Doesn’t the Comte de Martineau hail from these parts? He’s not been at court for some time.”

“His daughter was sick,” Porthos mutters, shrugging, “Was what they were all sayin’ at court, anyway.”

“Dying?”

Porthos nods, and Athos eyes him. “The sort of thing to make a man desperate,” he says, and Porthos remembers their conversation in the woods the night before: _people get desperate, they ask for help_. And when a man had prayed to God, long and hard and with all he had, and no help came, would he look elsewhere for deliverance?

“You think.. _that’s_ him?” d’Artagnan asks, gesturing with his pistol and looking more than a little green around the edges.

“I’d rather not get close enough to know for sure. But yes, I think it might be,” Athos replies.

“Fuck,” Porthos mutters, turning aside, careful not to look again at the symbols that seem to shift, ever so slightly, on the stone floor of the church. He can feel them, even turned away, feel them prickling at his skin.

“What is that? That...stuff,” he says, pointing at the symbols without looking.

“It looks like…” Aramis says, voice drifting off. He clears his throat, and the sound seems to echo around the space and bounce back, like a growl. “An invitation, of sorts. I may have read about them, in some of the more...unusual religious texts, shall we say.”

“What are you _reading,_ Aramis?!” d’Artagnan says, voice high and tight.

“Nothing that you can’t find in a good ecclesiastical library,” Aramis says to the boy, looking slightly affronted. “Just the descriptions, it’s not as if they were _manuals_ for summoning...”

“Summoning what?” Athos asks, voice low.

Aramis swallows, and seems hesitant to say. “Something bad.”

“And powerful?”

“Powerful enough to turn a man into a pile of...bits, apparently,” d’Artagnan says.

Porthos tries to keep his voice steady around the pounding of his heart. “But Martineau, if that is him...he asked for its help, invited it here…”

“Apparently it wasn’t inclined to assist him,” Athos mutters.

Aramis runs a shaking hand through his hair and turns away from the mess on the floor. “I didn’t _believe_ it,” he says, voice low. “I thought they were just stories that…” His words trail off and Porthos flicks a glance to him, sees the other man’s eyes wide and wary. Aramis dips his chin towards the door, and Porthos turns carefully, heart lurching.

A man stands in the doorway, dark against the light from outside. It takes a while for Porthos’ eyes to adjust and make out the man’s features, twisted horribly. He wears the red and black of the Red Guards. 

“It’s alright, friend,” Athos says, and his voice edges the line between steady command and something entirely more cautious. “We’ve come to help.”

The man twitches, and a sound to the right draws Porthos’ attention to the darkness near the wall, where another man appears in jerking, sharp movements, closely followed by two more.

“How many men did the Cardinal send?” d’Artagnan asks, carefully, as another man startles from the shadows to their left, beside the font.

“Nine,” Athos replies.

“Looks like we’ve found the full set.”

With a sudden sharp movement one of the men to the right flings himself at Aramis, whose pistol fires wildly as he and the Red Guard tumble to the ground in a flurry of limbs. Porthos has no time to react before the man to the left has launched himself at his back and his own pistol fumbles from his grasp to skitter across the floor.

The man’s breath is hot and putrid on his neck, teeth gnashing with a horrible, snapping sound. Porthos slams his weight backwards and feels the man’s ribs compact beneath his weight as they hit the floor. Two gunshots are fired in quick cracking succession somewhere above him and he hears d’Artagnan shout, the sound of blades slipping free of sheaths, a feral growling that bounces around the walls of the church, amplified to a horrible rolling snarl.

Porthos bucks, trying to shake the man, elbowing hard in an attempt to prise himself away as the man continues to scratch and claw and try to bite at the exposed flesh of Porthos’ neck, his ear. He throws his head back hard and hears a crunch as the man’s nose breaks, and manages to work a hand behind him to pull at the grip of the main gauche fixed at his back. The blade free, he stabs it sharply in the space between his own body and arm, hears the hollow sound of the man’s breath leaving him in a whoop of air. The hand clutching at Porthos lessens its grip and he flings himself forwards, feeling the pull of the main gauche as it slips back out from between the man’s ribs. He spins and stabs again, and again before he can think, and the man spits one last bloody snarl before going still.

Porthos takes a moment to study the dead man, and balks at what he finds: the Red Guard’s eyes are red and bloody around the pupils, his veins standing black and stark against the chalky whiteness of his face. As he slumps, mouth hanging open in death, Porthos can see the man has no tongue. It looks like he’s chewed right through it. Disgust roils sickening in Porthos’ stomach.

Shifting the blade to his left hand, he reaches blindly beneath a nearby pew and retrieves his fallen pistol, feeling a little more sure of himself with its weight in his palm. He can see Athos grappling with a guard while another makes to throw himself at him. Porthos knows he’s a better shot when he has no time to aim, but still he lets out a harsh huff of relief when he pulls the trigger and the man near Athos goes down, a neat bullet hole punched at the bottom of his skull.

D’Artagnan emerges from behind a pew and blows the hair out of his eyes with a breath as he heaves at his main gauche, stuck right through the guard he had been fighting and into the wood of the bench behind. The blade comes free with a wrench. There’s a soft, wet noise as Athos withdraws his sword from the stomach of the last guard.

“Aramis?” Athos asks, throwing his words over his shoulder to where Aramis had last been. The other man appears from behind a pew looking a little shaken, wiping his knife on a red and black cloak.

“Did anyone leave one alive for questioning?” Athos asks, putting away his blade.

“Thought you would,” Aramis says breathlessly, coming over to join them.

“We really ought to agree on these things before we begin, ”Athos sighs, but there’s a shudder to his voice, just beneath the words.

“I don’t think they _could_ talk, anymore.” d’Artagnan says with a grimace, and shakes his head, “He barely seemed to feel the bullet I put through his stomach. He just kept coming.”

“Jesus,” Porthos breathes, “I’m getting out of here.” He doesn’t stop to acknowledge the others, the need to get back out into the open air and away from the horrid darkness of the church is too great. The weight of the dark is like something living, pressing in on him from all sides.

He thinks he hears the scream again, building slowly until he steps out into the silence of the graveyard.

*  
The air outside is hot and still with the promise of more rain, but at least, Porthos thinks, it doesn’t smell of blood.

He can’t stop thinking about the dead man in the town square, and can almost feel the pull of heavy iron around his wrists for a moment. He takes a steadying breath against the hot cloying ball of fear that seems to have been hovering at the pit of his stomach since they left Paris. 

"What do you know, Athos?” he asks as the others join him outside, “Treville must have told you something more."

Athos looks at him heavily, seems to weigh his words. "It is not my orders to tell you- "

"Fuck your orders!" Aramis interrupts, "People have died!"

"People die all the time."

D'Artagnan looks appalled. "This is bigger than us Athos."

Porthos feels sick, feels like everything is creaking and shattering like ice beneath his feet. They suddenly look like strangers to him, his brothers: Athos still cold and distant but with the look of a man who’s clinging desperately to something slipping from his grip, D’Artagnan pacing and rolling his shoulders, unable to look at anyone. And Aramis, who Porthos would have sworn not days ago he knew and trusted as well as any man in this world.

Athos takes off his hat and runs a shaking hand through his hair. "Reports came in from the town," he says after a moment. "The Cardinal had reasons to believe there was something...bad, here because..." He looks about, swallows hard, "It seems a book was stolen from his collection."

"What kind of book?" Aramis asks.

"You know you said the books you'd read were not a manual, as such? Well..."

"Why in good God's name would the Cardinal even _have_ such a book?" Aramis’ voice is tight with shock. 

"It was not my place to ask, nor is it yours,” Athos says firmly, “D'Artagnan is right, this is bigger than all of us."

"You should have told us," Porthos shakes his head, “You should have told us, Athos.”

"I could not."

"Why? Because you're our commander and we're just your foot soldiers, is that it?" d'Artagnan says, fairly spitting the words.

"Yes," Athos snaps. "Do _you_ wish to be in command, d'Artagnan? Because some day you might, and then you will understand why a leader does not tell his men any more than they need to know."

Aramis lets out a tight laugh. "So you knew all along this is what we could have been walking into?"

Athos doesn't reply, and that's answer enough. 

"You were prepared to risk all our lives, then. But I suppose it’s of no consequence since we are only _your men._ "

"No," Athos shakes his head fiercely, "No...that’s...I knew nothing for certain.”

Porthos knows he should stop this, because everything is breaking and he can't bear it. But the anger has been building for so long he's not sure what will come out if he opens his mouth, feels undone in a way he never has before. Damn Athos and his stubborn following of orders, damn Aramis and his not knowing when to stop pushing - even d'Artagnan and the ridiculous pedestal he has placed them all on, Athos most of all. Porthos wants to ride back to Paris, wants to hit someone, has no goddamn idea what he wants.

“Did you care at all that we were going in blind, that we might die?” d'Artagnan asks, and his rage has descended into something quiet and bitter now, flecked with disappointment. 

“Of course...my orders...,” Athos says, trying to catch d'Artagnan's eye, " _Please._ ". There’s suddenly something desperate in his voice that makes him sound so young, so afraid that Porthos can’t bear to look at him, and he finds himself having to turn away.

“I could not tell you,” Athos continues, voice steadier now. He draws in a breath. “The Cardinal came to Treville, told him a book was missing which contained many...dark things. He said it could be dangerous, and that I should retrieve it if I could. That’s all I was told. I swear to you, all.”

The four of them shift, unsure quite what to say, and the silence expands around them like something suffocating and heavy. 

"Well then, glorious leader,” Aramis says after a moment. His voice is cold, and it doesn’t sound like him at all anymore. He gives a small mocking bow. “What are your orders for us now? We are at your command.”

Athos blinks, something hard closing behind his eyes. A brief moment of weakness, of honesty, seems to have shocked even him. He looks exhausted, swallowing heavily.

“There’s a town to the north of here,” Athos says, “D’Artagnan and I can be there and back in an hour or so. We will go and see if this has...spread there. If all is well we’ll send a message to Treville and head back to meet you.”

“And me and Aramis?” Porthos asks warily.

“The Comte de Martineau’s house is half a mile that way,” Athos says, gesturing to the hills beyond the church. “Find somewhere out of sight and wait for us. Don’t go in.”

Aramis nods and heads down the slope to where the horses wait. 

“Aramis, _don’t_ go in.”

“As you command,” Aramis says, not even bothering to look back over his shoulder.

*


	4. Grave Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aramis does not follow orders, and Porthos finally meets the darkness.

The house is big and rambling, an old château that has been added to over the centuries and now resembles something fat and hulking on the hilltop, surrounded by bare beech trees studded with the odd brown leaf despite the spring green countryside it sits in.

They slow their horses under a stand of low trees that shiver on the very edge of a ring of barren grass, reaching out from the house.

“Think perhaps this is the place?” Aramis asks, grimly.

“What the fuck are we doing here Aramis?” Porthos asks, and he can barely hold down the dread in his voice. “We’re Musketeers. We shouldn’t….this isn’t for us to deal with.”

“It’s for someone to, and who if not us?”

Aramis urges his horse out from the canopy of trees and towards the house.

“Aramis!” Porthos shouts, panicked, and the other man pulls on his reins and twists in the saddle to regard him.

“Athos told us not to go in,” Porthos calls.

“Athos lied to us.”

“And he’s the only one here that’s been keepin’ secrets, yeah?” Porthos shouts, the words bursting out of him and he can’t stop them, won’t stop them, because they’ve been pushing at the back of his teeth for days now.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Aramis says dismissively, “And I’m going in.”

“Please Aramis, we don’t know what’s in there…”

“You’re afraid.”

“Of course I’m fucking afraid, Aramis!” Porthos says, feeling his cheeks flush red, “And you should be too!”

Aramis shakes his head, a compulsive little movement, as though trying to twitch loose something buzzing in him. ““People have died and I…” He pulls in a deep breath, “We need to do something.”

Porthos has seen that look in Aramis’ eyes before, the focussed little glint, the tight shift of anger turned inwards.

“We couldn’t have done anything about all them Red Guards, the man in the tavern,” Porthos says, evenly. “It’s not on you.”

“If I sit by and do nothing it is.”

Porthos shakes his head, “No Aramis. It’s not like Sa-”

“It’s exactly like it,” Aramis bites, and he won’t say the word _Savoy_ or suffer to hear it because he never does, unless he has to, like a bleeding wound he refuses to stitch shut, and it fills Porthos with such anger.

“So you’ll go in. Even if it means your own life?”

Aramis just looks at him, and blinks wearily. “Perhaps.”

“Noble words,” Porthos laughs, feeling it cut and catch at his throat in its cruelty, “Don’t be a fool, Aramis.”

It’s the other man’s turn to blush now, he makes as if to say something, before shaking his head and spurring his horse on to the house.

Porthos watches, chewing his lip, the fear fluttering in his gullet. The château seems to darken and leer at him. “Fuck,” he whispers, “Fuck, Aramis.”

By the time he reaches the house the other man has already tied up his horse and disappeared through the large double doors.

*

Inside there is no sign of Aramis. The corridors stretch empty and dark out from the main room with its great sweeping staircase, but there is nothing here: no furniture, no paintings, no Aramis. 

“Aramis?” he says, though it’s barely a whisper. The fear is like a great pressure, building as the silent seconds pass, pressing at the back of Porthos’ eyes till his head pounds with it. He tries to steady his breathing, because if he thought the church was bad this is something else entirely. The house feels wrong in so many ways. He takes a step into the bare hall, but his boots make no sound on the wooden floorboards, as if the emptiness was sucking in all the noise and light and life and leaving only this dull, even throb of darkness and fear.

“Aramis?” Porthos calls again, a little louder this time. He has never thought of himself as a fearful man, but there’s no space for shame here, because the terror is striking somewhere primitive in his brain, somewhere he has no control over. Porthos feels small in a way he hasn’t ever really felt before.

He can’t leave. He can barely take a step in any direction.

But Aramis is in here. Aramis who is lying to him, and with whom he is more angry than he has ever been, but… _Aramis_ all the same. If Aramis is sick and tired of him, if everything they have is to end here, it will not be of Porthos’ doing.

 _One thing at a time,_ he tells himself. _Think rationally._

The glimpses of rooms he can see along the corridors and the floor at the top of the staircase are thick with shadows, the tall windows barely letting in enough light for Porthos to see a few feet in front of him. Or maybe, that’s the fear. He feels like his world has narrowed down to nothing, feels it all pressing in on him.

_Breathe._

Above him is an ornate candelabra, hanging fairly low. Porthos un-sheaths his sword and jumps high enough to knock a candle or two down with the blade in his outstretched arm. Taking out the tinderbox that hangs at his belt, he bends to light the candle with fumbling fingers. It takes longer than usual, since the nagging need to look up and check around him every few seconds hums loudly through his brain.

Once the candle is lit, he sheaths his sword once more and takes out his pistol instead, takes one deep, steadying breath, and climbs the stairs into the darkness.

The first floor is just as empty as before, and in its current state Porthos can’t see it as a house that people lived and worked in, only walls and a roof and dark corners, thick with shadows and a numbing dread.

"Aramis?" Porthos calls again, quietly. He tries to keep his gun level and his hand steady, but the sudden thought permeates his mind, that perhaps Aramis has gone. Perhaps Aramis has left without telling him and Porthos is alone, here, in this place with the fear dark and stagnant in the shadows that scuttle into corners away from the tiny flare of his candle.

It all starts to pull away from him, any rationality he may have had. What if this is some joke? What if it's not just Aramis who's left him here, but the others too, sick and tired of him? What if Treville asked them to?

Are they halfway back to Paris, laughing at stupid, slow Porthos?

Porthos breathes, deeply, trying to calm himself, but his heart drums wildly in his chest and it’s almost too much to bear.

There's a ghost of air like a breath against the back of his neck, and all the hairs on his arms stand up, flesh rising to goosebumps.

The fear is like a heavy cloak smothering him. He knows as he turns that it won’t be Aramis, but he’s still surprised somehow to see the girl standing before him in the darkened corridor, watching him, shadows playing about her feet. She can't be more than twelve years old, Porthos thinks. Martineau’s daughter, perhaps? He tries to speak, takes a step closer, but as the light falls across her he sees her white dress, stained dark with old blood. It's flaking on her hands, right up to her elbows. He takes a step back, raises his gun with numb fingers.

Her head is cocked to the side, and it's a moment before Porthos sees the line of her throat, the way it bends where it shouldn't. She takes a step towards him, her curls bouncing at the loll of her broken neck.

"You're very big," the girl says, eyes flicking to a flat, gleaming black. "And all alone." 

Her mouth opens and at first Porthos thinks she's going to scream, but it's not sound that comes out but a blackness, inky and thick as smoke. The candle in his hand flares out, and he drops it with a clatter, firing wildly into the darkness.

Porthos opens his mouth to scream, but suddenly there is no air, only a surge of shadow that pushes hard down his throat, choking him.

*

**

***

**

*

The gunshot is distant and muffled, doesn’t echo even though the sound should ricochet around the walls of the big empty house. Still, it makes Aramis jump just slightly, his skin prickle.

Where had it come from?

“Porthos?” he calls. The silence breathes in his words and swallows them whole. Had the other Musketeer followed him into the château, after all? He feels sure he would have heard him, or seen the man, but there’s something strange about the house and Aramis has already completely lost his bearings. He considers marking the wall to make sure he’s not going in circles, but the thought of taking out his blade and cutting into the house in any way fills him with dread, as though the thing might swallow him up in retribution.

The darkness is like something solid and immovable. Aramis wishes he’d thought to seek out a candle or torch of some kind. Pushing aside a heavy brocade curtain at the window seems to do nothing to the shadows, the light fading barely a step away from the glass.

Aramis turns and takes a careful step down the hallway, in the direction he thinks the gun shot might have come from. The silence plays on his nerves and he feels the skitter of his heartbeat, tries to push through the fear like veils trailing across his face with every step he takes along the corridor. “Porthos?” he calls again, just a whisper. The desire to turn back is almost overpowering, to find the stairs and go back out until Athos and d’Artagnan join them, but he reminds himself that it was his decision to come into the house, and that waiting has never been his strong suit. And Porthos might be in here.

There’s a flutter, like black wings somewhere in the corner of his eye, and he spins, heart leaping into his throat hard enough to choke the breath from him.

The house is silent, and utterly empty. Still Aramis thinks he hears the ghostly shiver and brush or wings, the distant caw of carrion crows, and pushes down hard on the flood of panic the sounds seem to hook and pull from somewhere deep within him.

He forces himself to take a step, and another, steady and calm even though his legs tremble and he wants to run far away. He thinks for a moment that he can smell blood and snow and dead flesh chilled solid in air suddenly gone icy and cold, and has to duck into a room off the corridor because he’s shaking and the darkness in front of him is too much to bear.

This is where he finds Porthos.

The other man is standing, back to him, shoulders hunched. He doesn’t seem to notice Aramis at all.

“Porthos?” he says, voice trembling just a little.

There’s a delay, a moment where Aramis is stood staring at the broad expanse of Porthos’ back before the other man turns.

“There you are,” Porthos says, “I couldn’t find you.”

“I didn’t know...you came in after all,” Aramis answers, swallowing around the bone dry taste in his mouth.

“Yes,” Porthos says. “I couldn’t find you.”

“Well, I’m here,” Aramis says, “And you were right, let’s leave.”

“Shouldn’t we look for it?”

Aramis shifts, tries to still his heart that’s beating wildly in his chest hard enough to hurt. “For what?”

“The thing,” Porthos says.

“I think we should go,” Aramis says, turning for the door.

“But I think we should stay,” Porthos says, and there’s a note of iron his voice. “We should stay, Aramis.”

Aramis turns, and it’s a moment before he realises the solidity at his back is the wall, and there’s nowhere left for him to go. He wonders why he was backing away, away from his friend, from _Porthos_? He can feel the tremor growing in his legs until they can barely take his weight any longer, and there’s a ghost of sharp pain in his hairline, a wound that healed five years ago but never really did, did it?

Porthos smiles, and blinks his eyes to black, and Aramis feels his knees go as he slides down to the floor, the push of panic and memory too heavy to hold.

“It’s you,” he says, when he can summon the words.

“Now it is,” the thing says with Porthos’ voice. It stretches its arms and regards itself. “Not bad, don’t you think?”

“Please…”

“Please what?” the things says, taking a step closer and leaning down as if to hear better. “He only came in here because of you. Rashness, Aramis. It’s a sin.”

Aramis feels the prayer drawn from him as if from a string, tugged upwards from somewhere deep and out past his numb lips in a murmur, word upon word like beads on a rosary.

The things that was Porthos blinks its ink black eyes and cocks its head, a smile playing about its lips.

“You think your God is here?” it says, and there’s a note of curiosity there, as though it’s trying to work him out. “Look around you. This is world of blood and marrow and splintered bone. There is no god here now but me.”

Aramis shakes his head, the Queen’s cross heavy and solid in his palm.

“Such a funny animal,” the thing sighs, “You have so many words. Words for insides, words for outside. I always knew how they tasted, but never their names.”

“Porthos,” Aramis says, after a while, “If you’re still in there…”

The thing laughs, a deep growling thing that sends shivers down Aramis’ spine, and its nothing like Porthos’ pleasing rumble of mirth. He doesn’t understand how it could look so Porthos and yes so utterly, utterly alien.

“Still in here?” the thing says, and smiles, low and lazy. “Yes. Your friend is still in here. Whimpering.”

“He’ll rip you apart,” Aramis says, with certainty. “As soon as we get him out he’ll rip you apart.”

“Who is we?” the thing asks, “You’re all alone, little man. And the ripping has already begun. Oh, he’s all torn up inside, I wish you could see it.” It grins, all teeth, the way Porthos used to before a fight but now it’s different, cold and glinting. “You will see it, before the night ends. His insides. And your own, lying on the ground at your feet, slipping through your fingers.” It licks its lips.

 _It lies,_ Aramis thinks, that’s what it does. _Porthos will be fine._

But those eyes, those cold eyes, black like the murky water of a fathomless pool, brackish and flat and full of dead things.

Aramis swallows past the tight hot lump in his throat. He will not cry. The others will be here soon and he will not let them see him cry, will not let Porthos - still inside, still alive - see him cry.

But the despair flutters at the edges of his mind, feels the brush of its feathery wings like carrion crows pecking at dead men, twenty dead men, lying in the snow and -

There’s a huge crack in him, made by grief and shame and guilt and five years of stolen life. Made for dark things to get in. This is what it does, he knows now, feels its fingers hard and skeletal in his heart, prising him open.

It comes like the first few skittering rocks before a landslide, the first panicked moments of despair, because he knows how it gets in and he knows how it feels and oh _God_ , how broken Porthos must have been by the shades of his past to let it take him.

“Let him go,” Aramis says, his breath shuddering but his voice oddly calm. “Take me instead.”

“But I’m the only thing keeping him alive.”

“You’re lying.”

“Hmm,” the thing muses, “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” It straightens up for a moment, closes it eyes, and when they open they are cloudy and brown, murky with pain and absolute bone-chilling terror that makes Aramis want to throw up, just to see it there in Porthos’ eyes.

“Aramis?” Porthos whispers.

There’s a split second of wavering silence, a flicker like a shadow passing across the sun, and Porthos’ knees crumple. He hits the ground hard enough to make Aramis wince, and hiccups out a thin gurgle of blood.

Aramis is calling his name and reaching out towards his friend when Porthos blinks, and the flat back eyes flick back into place.

It’s on a level with him now, the thing that was his friend, kneeling opposite him, studying him.

Aramis thinks of Porthos - laughing, eyes crinkling at the corners, the quiet, steady pride when first he’d worn the Musketeers pauldron.

“I don’t care,” Aramis says, pushing past the lie because it’s breaking his heart. “Let him go. Take me instead.”

The thing smiles.

It comes shuffling towards him on Porthos’ knees, hand outstretched, but Aramis flinches away. “A moment,” he says. “Just…..a moment.”

He forces himself to look beyond those flat black eyes, beyond to the man he knows is within. He takes a breath, tries to fill himself full to bursting with the memory of Porthos: the way his laugh filled up a room, his presence, huge and familiar at his back in a fight, Balizarde singing as he swung the great blade like an extension of his arm. Nights drinking and cheating at cards, mornings in a tangle of limbs and nausea. It all flickers before him: Porthos on trial for a murder he hadn’t committed, Porthos looking tenderly at his widow Alice, Porthos, Porthos, Porthos.

“I do this for you, Porthos,” Aramis says, “I do this freely. Don’t you dare think otherwise. Get away. Find Athos. Don’t hesitate.”

He hopes Porthos knows what he means: run if he can, find Athos and d’Artagnan if he can, and kill him, God, kill him if he can. _Don’t flinch,_ he wants to say, tries to say with his eyes and hopes Porthos is in there and can see, as he always has, exactly what Aramis is thinking. _Don’t flinch when the chance comes to kill me._

He has to believe Porthos is still alive, that the thing is lying and when it frees him his friend will be whole enough to draw breath, to get up, to run.

“You’ve had your moment,” the thing says - and Aramis thinks _and you yours._

It comes like a cloud of smoke, a black stream vomiting from Porthos’ mouth, thrown wide with a jerk. Coiling and writhing like a snake made of darkness and sulphurous smog, it hangs in the air between them for a moment. And then it is there, consuming itself and consuming Aramis.

He feels himself crumpling downwards as if under a great weight, hitting the ground with force and curling in on himself as his muscles spasm hard. His mouth opens in a scream that never comes, jaws wide and creaking like they’re going to break. There’s no air, or too much air, or too much of something, slamming its way into his mouth and down his throat, and suddenly there is no destination for it because it’s already there, it’s already him.

He thinks of Porthos, holds to it like an anchor.

As if from a distance, Aramis can hear the little huffs of pain he’s making, the last of the air forced from his lungs like he’s being punched in the stomach. There’s no other sound, no noise from Porthos. He feels his body twitch once, twice, shoulders cutting into the floor, spine arching and lifting him up. 

And then stillness.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've drawn from 'Supernatural' when it comes to the demon lore here, the way it possesses a person like black smoke from its mouth, black eyes etc.
> 
> I know it wasn't in Porthos for long, but there's a reason for that, you'll see.
> 
> Thanks again for reading and commenting - it's really cheering me along.


	5. Rage, Rage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aramis is gone, and Porthos is left to convince his brothers of the truth.

A harsh slap brings Porthos to the surface of consciousness, and another, and another, a kick to somewhere that might be his stomach but is difficult to tell, since he cannot connect any part of his body with himself anymore.

It’s like being brought into the light after days in the dark: his eyes stream, when he can open them more than just a fraction, and everything is bright and jagged through his lashes. He feels like he’s been trampled by a horse, the pain insistent. He tries to quirk a finger, move his legs, learn again what it is to have control of his own body. 

There’s a laugh somewhere above him but it’s distant, like being underwater. Another kick to his stomach, and Porthos tries to curl in on himself, but his body is numbed and heavy. He tastes blood but cannot spit, feels it dribbling from his lax mouth.

Aramis’ face swims into focus above him, and it all comes crashing back to him with the dull pounding of his heart in his ears. The thing laughs again, but it sounds nothing like his friend. It hooks fingers in his mouth and pulls, until Porthos is flailing and choking against the blood and the pressure on his tongue.

He tries to bite down, but his jaws are weak, bruised and tender.

Sitting back on its haunches, the thing examines its wiggling fingers red and bright with Porthos’ blood.

All he can do is stare up at the thing that is not his friend, the face that is so familiar but utterly, utterly alien now, the wide eyes black and oily instead of smiling warm brown."Oh Porthos," the thing sighs, "The fun we could have had. But don't be sad, you played your part well."

Porthos blinks, trying to let the knowledge coalesce into sense inside his mind. Yes, that's right isn't it? It wanted Aramis, and then....

The thing picks up Porthos' limp hand and takes a finger, snaps it sideways with delicate precision.

Porthos tries to scream but all that comes out is an animal noise of pain. There's something like nausea swirling in his gut but his muscles are too bruised and weak to vomit.

"Do you like it? Do you like what he's doing to you?"

Porthos shudders, tries to draw air into his lungs. The words don’t come, his mouth can’t remember how to form the sounds anymore. He shakes his head, and moans.

"It’s not Aramis, is that what you mean? Are you sure?" it asks with a quirk of Aramis' lips. “Hmm. You never laid a finger on him while I was in you. And now look at us." It flexes its fingers, dark and shining with Porthos' blood. "Maybe that's why he invited me in."

Porthos shakes his head again, vehement despite the lack of words.

"Maybe Aramis wanted this. Maybe he was sick and tired of your stupidity." The thing says it without any feeling, and it's worse, almost, this flat, disinterested tone. If he shouted, if he snarled the words Porthos would know for sure they weren't true. "Stupid, slow Porthos," it sing-songs. "He’s laughing at you, inside."

Porthos tries to let the words glance off him, because he knows now that's what it did to him, opened him up and stepped right in. He pulls in a breath, spits a bright arc of blood in Aramis' face. The thing sticks out its tongue, licks the bloody spittle into its smiling mouth.

Closing his eyes, Porthos tries to still his wildly beating heart. When the thing was inside him he could see what it was doing, could feel it, but as if from very far away. He knows that Aramis has no control but he is still _in there_ , raging, pained, afraid, and Porthos’ heart breaks because he knows without a doubt that his friend is going to watch him die, slowly. Aramis will feel the blood on his hands, he will see the moment the life leaves Porthos’ eyes, and there will be nothing he can do about it.

“Aramis! Porthos?”

The voice is distant. A door creaks somewhere in the house.

Porthos’ eyes snap open, and he sees the thing turn and move away from him. Its eyes are angry for a moment, then shift to coolly calculating as it takes out Aramis knife and slowly cuts a stripe across its own temple. Porthos winces to see the flesh part, the wound deep enough to glance against the bone in places. In seconds the blood is streaming, and half of Aramis’ face is scarlet and vivid with it. It drops the knife at Porthos’ side, and it skitters on the polished wood beside him.

“H...Here,” the thing says, and Aramis’ voice is shaking and pained. It hunches against the wall in the far corner, and blinks its eyes back to brown. “In here, Athos! D’Artagnan! Please!”

It smiles at him, then.

Porthos tries to get up, to coordinate his limbs. He manages to rock himself over, get his elbows underneath him, but can barely lift his weight more than a few inches from the floor. His legs kick out, squirming to get his knees up.

Footsteps race down the corridor, “In here!” d’Artagnan calls.

The torch the boy carries is bright and flares pain behind Porthos’ eyes. He can hear a thin whine and realises it’s coming from him.

“Don’t!” the thing gasps as d’Artagnan makes to cross the room to Porthos’ side. “It’s in him, dear God, d’Artagnan, it’s in Porthos!”

Athos appears in the doorway and takes in the scene. D’Artagnan doesn’t seem to know what to do, moves cautiously to Aramis and squats down beside him, hands probing at the wound on his head. “This is deep, Aramis.”

“He did it….he did it to me...it’s in Porthos, the thing that was summoned...” It breathes with Aramis’ voice. "I saw it, like smoke - it went into his mouth and it ...his eyes went...went _black!_ "

Porthos tries to shake his head, tries to speak, but the words are far away and he can’t pull them up to his mouth. He mumbles a garbled sound, squirms across the floor.

D'Artagnan flinches away, but Athos merely stands, pistol in his hand. He looks at Porthos, flickers a glance quickly at where d’Artagnan is ripping a thin stripe from his own shirt to bandage Aramis’ head. 

"How did he do it?" d'Artagnan asks, eyeing Porthos as he fixes the bandage."He can barely stand. Are you sure, Aramis?"

"He attacked me, d'Artagnan! I...I got out my crucifix and...I don't know..."

Porthos shakes his head in frustration, and jerks as hands come to hook under his armpits, hefting him up. 

"What are you doing?!" Aramis gasps.

"If he's dangerous then we should lock him up until we know how to help him."

Athos heaves Porthos to a sitting position and props him against the wall. 

“Don’t get close to him!” Aramis says, and there’s a desperation there that Porthos knows is not entirely false.

Athos squats a short distance away so that he is on a level, and looks long and hard at Porthos, who tries to mutely express everything that has happened through his eyes alone. He hums out a frustrated, pained sound and tries again to speak though the words are still far away, and he can’t shape his mouth to voice them.

Athos’s face is as impenetrable as ever, and Porthos has no idea what he may or may not believe.

The frustration makes him want to lash out, to scream, and he feels as shackled and hobbled as any man clamped in irons right now.

"D'Artagnan," Athos says, "See if you can find a key to this room. I'll see to Aramis." The older man turns and helps Aramis to his feet, leading him out into the hall.

The door shuts behind them with a click, and Porthos is alone. He breathes out a shaky exhalation and lets the darkness settle around him, soothing the dull pain behind his eyes.

A thin strip of light underneath the door flickers with shadows as the men outside move about. The voices are muffled but Porthos can just make out their words. 

"Athos, are you sure..."

"Not now, d'Artagnan," Athos says, and his voice is heavy with that tone of command.

"I just don't know if-"

"D'Artagnan!"

"It's alright, Athos," comes Aramis' voice, "I wouldn't believe it if I were you either. It's...it's _Porthos_."

"It's not him," Athos says with ringing certainty, and then, "It's this thing, whatever it is."

"What should we do?"

"We need to get back to Paris, tell Treville what's happened. But someone needs to watch Porthos."

"We could just leave him here, come back for him?" Aramis asks, a note of pressure there.

"No, if he's dangerous he must be watched. But you're not fit to make the journey alone. I’ll need to accompany you."

"You could ask me to stay, you know," d'Artagnan says, angrily. "I'm here too, in case you'd forgotten."

"D'Artagnan-"

"You don't trust me to do it? Because I'm the _boy_ , is that it?"

Silence meets his words. Porthos shifts, trying to ease out his cramped limbs, to move towards the door, but he can barely wiggle his toes.

"Very well," Athos says. "Aramis and I will head out after I stitch his wound. Stay here, watch the door, we'll be back as soon as possible."

“Oh, and Aramis,” comes Athos voice, “Do you still have your crucifix?”

“Yes.”

“Where is it?” There’s something deliberate in Athos’ voice, a note that makes Porthos sit up a little straighter, strain to hear. Silence greets his words and Porthos thinks he hears the rustle of clothing.

“Here,” says Aramis.

“Good. Give it to d’Artagnan? He may need it for protection. If it worked against the thing, as you said?”

“Of course.”

Footsteps move away down the corridor, fading into silence. D’artagnan shifts and settles against the other side of the door.

Porthos sits, and wills his own body with all the strength he has in him to obey him. He can do this. He’s never backed down from a challenge, however impossible, and the stakes are as high as they’ve ever been. Closing his eyes tight, he breathes as deep as he can, lets the panicked breaths ease out until they’re long and slow and full, clears his mind, and _concentrates._

  
*  
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**  
*  


They set off at an even canter, keeping the horses moving quickly but careful not to overwork them. Athos has to keep reminding Aramis to slow down, that the horses will tire beneath them if pushed too hard. There’s something tight in the other man’s face, a restraint like gritted teeth beneath his easy demeanour.

That’s what confirms it, for Athos, the knowledge he was already fairly sure of dropping into place like a sword in a sheath: Aramis would be frantic with worry if Porthos were in any kind of danger, snapping and pushing, if indeed he would have left his friend’s side at all, duty be damned. It’s plain he’s eager to return to Paris as soon as possible, but there’s nothing of the frayed quality, the shuddering fear that has always been evident on Aramis’ face whenever his friend is hurt or in danger.

When Athos shoots a glance at the other man under the lowered brim of his hat, he is reminded of a mask at a fete, held just clear of the face, obscuring but never entirely hiding the one beneath. Oh, it’s skilfully done, but this is his brother: he has seen Aramis bright with mirth and shattered into pieces and every shade between. Athos knows him as well as he could ever know another, now - as well as the remains of his heart could still allow. Familiar enough to recognise him in the dark by the way he moves, his step, his silhouette, his brothers are a constant in each other’s lives that nothing else could fill. The man beside him is not Aramis, and Athos finds it almost insulting that it would think to deceive him so.

He keeps his face calm and his voice steady, years of feeling not much of anything help him school his features, and he’s sure the thing does not suspect that he knows, that he left Porthos and d’Artagnan where they will be safe.

Athos can’t dispel the feeling of reeling out of control. All he’s known since setting foot in that room to the sight of two of his brothers bleeding, one mute and the other a stranger, is that he must get this thing away from Porthos and d’Artagnan as quickly as possible. He’s not sure what it’s done to Porthos, but the thought of d’Artagnan too, mute and bloody, sets a bright spark of panic in Athos. 

He feels alone in a way he realises he hasn’t in quite some time, and pushes heavily down on any thoughts of Aramis, what it’s doing to him and what will remain of him if they can even get it out.

It prickles his skin to admit the thought, but the only notion of a plan he has is to try to get the thing to the Cardinal, who began this whole thing. It’s true that his orders were to retrieve the book if possible, but he found no trace of it in the church or house, and the more pressing issue right now is to keep track of the thing. While it is in Aramis Athos knows at least that it is by his side. Perhaps the Cardinal will have other books, or some secret knowledge of how to lever the thing out of Aramis. It's true the crucifix Athos had made it take out with its own hands seemed to have little effect on it, but the Cardinal is a man of the church, and Athos knows no other that might be able to fight it.

To put his brother in the hands of a man who clearly cares so little for them turns his stomach, but he reasons Aramis is in the hands of a far greater evil now. _Better the devil you know, I suppose,_ Athos thinks, with little mirth.

They stop to water the horses by a stream as the sun is beginning to rise, the sky lightening to a pale, forget-me-not blue. Athos takes a long swig of water from a skin, but it tastes dry and ashy in his mouth, and the want for wine is crooked and sharp in the pit of his belly. He stretches out his gloved fingers, hands beginning to tremor, catches the thing watching him from Aramis’ eyes with something like a smirk about its lips.

“Is all well?” it asks, concern in its voice like paper pasted crudely over a yawning crack in a wall. 

“As well as can be,” Athos says, wanting to look away because there’s something of his dead brother Thomas in its face for a moment, in the shadows and flickers of sun rising through tree branches.

He must not let the thing out of his sight, tries never to turn his back to it, breathes deep against the stirring of nausea. 

The smell of jasmine and blood is like a ghost of someone just stepped out of his sight.

  
*  
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**  
*  


“D’Artagnan?”

The young man shifts outside, Porthos can see his shadow move slightly against the dull strip of light under the door. It’s taken him hours to teach himself to talk again, forcing his lips and tongue to make the shapes, reciting his own name over and over again in a whisper until the sound resembled more than an animal mumble.

“D...D’Artagnan,” he tries again, stumbling a little.

“Porthos,” d’Artagnan call uncomfortably, “I shouldn’t talk to you.”

Porthos gets his legs under him and manages to crawl on hands and knees to the door, slumping breathlessly against it in the darkened room. The effort is almost too much - his muscles cramp painfully, his head pounding.

“Please d’Artagnan,” he says after a while, and he tries to keep the frustration out of his voice because he knows it won’t help his cause, and everything depends on him persuading the young man on the opposite side of the door that he is not a danger. “It was in me...but then Aramis found me...and….”

He sucks in a deep breath, trying to line up his thoughts into something coherent, and fighting too with the wave of panic because Aramis did it for _him_ , willingly.

“Aramis made it take him instead,” Porthos says, the memory rising like bile in his throat, Aramis on his knees, laying himself bare for it, for _Porthos._

“That’s what you _would_ say, if you were...this thing. Why should I believe you?”

“Because you don’t feel it anymore, do you? It’s still there...but fainter, isn’t it?” 

There’s no answer from d’Artagnan, on the other side of the door. Porthos continues, “All that fear and pain and anger you been feelin’. It took what hurt us and made it worse.”

It’s true that since Athos left with the thing in Aramis the horrible raw feeling has sunk away in Porthos, but it’s replaced now with fear and panic that he knows is real and entirely his: the thing is in Aramis, in his best friend, and it cares so little for his body. It could break every bone in there, rip organs to tatters and still function.

Porthos knows how much it hurt to have it in himself, like trying to bottle fire and the wind and the thunder from the clouds. It almost ripped him apart and it was in him for only a few minutes, he cannot imagine what it would do to a man it held in its grasp for any longer. Even a man like Aramis. _Especially_ a man like Aramis.

And Athos, Athos who is alone with it.

“It made you feel like we didn’t trust you, like _Athos_ didn’t take you seriously, didn’t it? And it killed that Red Guard to look like your father but I’ll bet anything you been thinkin’ about him since we left Paris. Like you just can’t get him out of your head.”

Porthos takes a deep breath, feels light headed with the effort of forming all those words. He slurs a little but it comes out clearly enough. Still, there’s no sound from outside the locked door.

He knows how it made d'Artagnan feel, how it manipulated them all. Porthos knows now where it hurts, the wounds to dig his fingers in, to use the boy like the thing did. But he clamps down on the thought before it takes root because d'Artagnan is his _friend_ and he is better than that, better than the thing. Honesty is his only option.

“I was already hurtin’,” Porthos says after a moment, tries to keep the tremor from his voice. “I was already hurtin’ so it went for me, opened me up.”

He laughs, a bitter little curl. “It made me feel like everyone was laughing at me, like you all wanted rid of me. It knew that, and it opened me up, so it could step inside.”

“Why?” d’Artagnan’s voice is a little clearer now, as though he’s turned and is speaking through the wood of the door to Porthos, on the other side.

“Because it knew Aramis would give himself for me, and the bloody fool did.”

The door cricks and shifts as the lock is turned from the other side. Porthos has time to shuffle aside before it opens inwards, the pale light of morning filtering through the windows enough to make his eyes water horribly. He lifts an arm warily, to ward off the bright light and any blow that might come his way.

D'Artagnan stands uncertainly, pistol pointed at Porthos. 

"Look at me, d'Artagnan,” Porthos says, “I couldn't hurt you right now even if I wanted to."

"What did it do to you?"

Porthos breathes and lets his head thunk back against the wall.

"When it took me," he swallows hard at the nausea the memory brings up, "Let's just say it hurt like all hell."

D'Artagnan regards him silently, pistol wavering just slightly.

"You believe me?"

"I don't know," d'Artagnan says, doubtfully, "But it does...feel different now. I don't know." He scrubs a shaking hand through his hair, and sits down a little distance from Porthos.

Something seems to occur to the boy - he reaches inside his shirt and tugs at something, and before Porthos has time to react d'Artagnan has thrown Aramis' crucifix at him. It hits him between the eyes and he winces. 

"Ow! Fuck!"

"Sorry," d'Artagnan grins, "Aramis said he'd used it against you."

"It was on him from the moment the thing took him, so I don't reckon it's of particular use against it," Porthos says. His fingers curl around the ornate cross tightly. “Better keep it,” he says, tucking it in his pocket, “He’ll want it back when this is over.”

“So," the younger man says, sobering, "It wanted Aramis?” 

“It _needed_ Aramis. And then…” 

Porthos closes his eyes against the sick rush and clamour of thoughts in his head, because the thing was in him, in his body and his mind. It had opened him up to step inside, but as a did he caught a glimpse of it, the real thing - and though the darkness was horrific, the hatred so immense it makes him want to claw his eyes out at the thought, he _knows_ it now.

"I know what it wants.”

  
*  
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*  


Athos feels his skin prickle, every brush of clothing against it is like nails scratching. He feels like he’s standing too close to a fire, the curious sharp tightening of skin, and he knows it’s getting worse the longer he’s with the thing that’s in Aramis.

His hands are trembling uncontrollably now, cramping around the reins he holds tightly to. On the outskirts of Paris he has to slow his horse, vomiting unceremoniously on his boots. He hasn’t felt like this since he tried to stop the drinking, and dear God that was bad enough for him to never want to try again. His breath comes short and stuttered and he feels the adrenaline rushing painfully through him. 

Athos looks at Aramis, riding next to him, really _looks_ , and summons all his energy to push through the discomfort and the nausea and the horrible sick nervous feeling in the pit of his jarring empty stomach. He knows it’s the thing’s influence on him, has to keep telling himself that. 

He promises himself that when this is all over he’ll find a tavern and drink till he can no longer move, holds on to it like an anchor.

Passing through the Porte St Denis they’re met instantly with the hectic rush of morning traffic, carts and traders and handsome carriages, cattle drivers and street vendors, barking dogs and dirty bare-foot children. 

It’s all too much for a moment, and Athos has to close his eyes gainst the spinning, blurring sensation.

When he opens them again Aramis is gone - the thing is gone.

It’s like a bucket of cold water over his head, the awful trickling panic, but it sobers him as definitely as any morning ritual to chase away the fog of alcohol.

Athos turns, breathing harshly, standing up in his stirrups to see over the press of people, spins again, eyes raking the busy backdrop of city life. It was here just a minute ago, next to him.

How could he possibly lose the thing so quickly? 

How could he be so stupid?

*


	6. Do Not Go Gentle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos enlists help in tracking down Aramis, while Porthos and d'Artagnan rush back to Paris...

It takes Porthos two tries to get in the saddle, d’Artagnan hefting from below, Porthos trying to get his arms coordinated enough to take some of his weight.

He sits upright, sways a little, but after a while is able to open his eyes.

“Good job, lad,” he says, “Knew all them nights helping Athos home from the tavern would come in handy.”

D’Artagnan’s face darkens, for a moment. “Will it take him?”

Porthos shakes his head and immediately regrets it, the world spinning and blurring around him. He takes a moment, until his head is a little clearer. “Don’t think so. But it’ll put a bullet in him if he gets in its way.”

The younger man swings up into the saddle and looks at Porthos steadily. “Do you know how to kill it?”

Porthos swallows, hard. “No,” he says with a swift shake of his head, “But I’ll find a way. It needs to die.” _Bloody and soon and by my hand,_ he thinks.

They push their horses as fast as they dare but it’s only a mile or so before Porthos feels himself slipping and has to rein in his mount, calling to d’Artagnan ahead of him.

“God dammit,” he gasps, folding double in the saddle, trying to breathe deep against the insistent push of bile in his throat. “Don’t think I can ride so fast.”

D’Artagnan nods grimly, and after a few moments pause they ride on, considerably slower this time.

It’s only then that it hits Porthos, the awful, ringing certain that strikes somewhere hollow inside of him: Athos left with Aramis hours ago, riding fast towards Paris. They’ve probably reached the city already.

There’s really no way they’re going to make it in time.

It’s too late.

Porthos closes his eyes tight and tries not to let the despair overtake him, because he feels right now like a dark wave is at his back, about to descend and wash him away to nothing. _Got to try,_ he thinks, _got to try, at least._

*  
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Treville's face is grim, steely eyes staring intently at Athos.

"I know it sounds...improbable sir, but-" 

"If it were anyone else standing before me with this news I would agree," Treville says, rubbing his temples. "And if the message you sent from that village near Avernes…”

“Frémanville,” Athos supplies.

“...is to be believed,” the Captain continues, “Then it looks like this thing has already done some considerable damage.” He frowns tightly at Athos, a look of exasperation on his face. “Jesus Christ man, sit down before you fall over, you look like shit."

Treville steps around the desk and manoeuvres Athos into a chair with an iron grip, before drawing a bottle of wine from a drawer and pouring a cupful.

"Time is pressing, Captain," Athos stutters, but the other man raises an eyebrow and pushes the cup at him. Athos accepts it with hands that shake so much the captain has to help steady it, raise it to his lips and help him drink like a child, or an invalid, or a man with wine for blood.

He feels a little better when the liquid slips down his dusty quaking throat and settles somewhere deeper and more vital than his stomach, in that hollow space inside that never seems to stay full for long. But the shame is scalding hot on his face, and he is suddenly overcome with the need to explain. 

"It was the thing Captain, it made me..." He colours, feeling ashamed of the state he's in and knowing Treville has every reason to think it is due to Athos' troubled relationship with alcohol alone. 

"No need," Treville says dismissively, waving a hand. "Can you ride?"

"I think so, yes."

"Good."

*

They find the Cardinal in his office like some scholarly carrion crow, picking at books and papers with bone-thin fingers. He looks up when the guard's attempt to announce their presence is interrupted by Treville barrelling through.

His eyebrows lower to a frown when he see Athos in the Captain's wake.

"Returned so soon?" He asks, and waves a hand at the guard to leave them. Once the door has closed he turns his cold stare back to Athos. "Did you retrieve it, the book?"

"No, your Eminence," Athos says, looking straight ahead.

"Matters have progressed rather," Treville says grimly. "Your men are dead. The Comte de Martineau used your book to summon some dark power. Which is now loose in Paris."

The cardinal stares at them cooly over his steepled fingers, no hint of surprise or shock there. 

"So it rather seems your men have failed in their mission, Treville," 

The captain bristles, but Athos is too tired and too worried to care for the snub.

" _My men_ discovered the threat and survived to report it, which is a damn sight more than _yours_ could manage."

"I think you'll find-"

"Excuse me," Athos says, wondering if it's wise to raise his voice to these two men but deciding the moment calls for it, "It shook me off as soon as it reached Paris. I believe it must have some desire here."

Treville nods tersely, and turns to the Cardinal once more. "If you know anything, what this thing is, what it wants..."

"Are you seriously asking me to ascertain which of all the many denizens of Hell has been summoned and what its purpose might be?" He laughs, grimly. "Chaos, gentlemen. Destruction. Power, and death, I think we can assume."

"It was your damned book," Treville bites, slamming a fist on the desk, "You are responsible for this thing and whatever it does!"

“I can hardly be-”

"Excuse me," Athos shouts this time, loud enough to make the other two men pause in their anger. He waits until the ringing echoes have died down, and takes a breath to clear his head. "If you could possess the body and mind of any man in Paris, and power was your aim, permit me to observe that the King or yourself, your Eminence, would be the obvious targets."

"He's right," Treville says, "The Queen too should be protected, lest the thing try to reach the King through her."

"The king is returning from Vincennes as we speak..."

"And the Queen is at the Louvre, yes,” Treville agrees, “I’d hesitate to guess that this thing is unaware of the King’s whereabouts, since his trip to Vincennes was a last-minute affair. I would suggest that you leave immediately, your Eminence, meet the King on the road and escort him back to the Louvre. I will go to the Queen - the greatest danger is with her, right now."

"Very well, " the Cardinal says, straightening.

"Tell no one who need not know, travel by a plain carriage.” Treville sniffs slightly, as if the thought of the Cardinal in his plush black carriage, the Richelieu coat of arms in gilt upon its sides, is distasteful to him. “Bring the King back immediately."

"And what do you suggest I tell him?" the Cardinal says, raising an eyebrow.

"Be creative with the truth, your Eminence. Isn’t that your forte?”

*

Outside the Palais Cardinal, Athos makes to follow the Captain in the direction of the nearby Louvre when Treville stops him with a firm hand against his chest. “No,” the Captain says, iron in his voice, “You’re dead on your feet. Go back to the garrison and rest.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in. “Captain,” Athos protests, “Do you expect me to sit on my hands while that thing is in Aramis and-”

“I expect you to follow your Captain’s orders. Go back to the garrison and wait there.”

Athos feels suddenly helpless, like the air has been knocked out of him and the weight of everything begins to crush down. This can’t be happening. He can’t fail again, he can’t lose someone else, because of his ineptitude, because he didn’t see until it was too late and…

“Please,” he says, and he can’t even hide that he’s begging now, “I can’t stay still. Please don’t make me stay still.” He’s as exhausted as he’s ever been but he must at least try to help Aramis, for the sake of Porthos and d’Artagnan if nothing else. His mind leaps treacherously to what they’ll say to him if something should happen to Aramis, if something should happen while Athos was _resting._

“If you don’t obey my order I’ll have you locked up - either way, you’re sitting this one out.”

Treville sighs and lays a hand on Athos’ shoulder. “I’ll send word if I hear of anything, I promise.”

*

Athos swings down from the saddle and hands his reins to the stable boy. Everything in the garrison looks exactly the same as it did before they set off, two days ago. He looks about the courtyard numbly and has to shut his eyes tight because he can almost hear Porthos and d’Artagnan sparring, Aramis cleaning his weapons at the bench, a well-aimed comment every now and then, a deep rumble of laughter.

“Monsieur Athos.”

Athos feels something tugging at his sleeve. Jacques, the stable boy is looking up at him balefully. “You know where the Captain is? Only there’s a messenger here and ‘e needs to be paid.”

Athos stares back, frowning.

“A messenger,” Jacques continues. “That’s ‘is horse. He wants paying for that, too.” The boy points over at a horse in the corner of the courtyard. It might once have been a fine mount, but the thing is clearly exhausted and has been ridden close to death, breathing hard and leaning heavily against the hitching post, white froth about its flank and neck.

“Where did he come from?”

“I dunno,” the boy shrugs, “Somewhere outside of Paris. Been ridin’ all day. He’s in the kitchens with Serge.”

Athos almost trips into the kitchens in his haste. There’s a young man dressed in plain clothes, sat at the bench eating a bowl of stew. 

“You have a message for the Captain? Who from? Where from?” Athos asks abruptly. 

“From Frémanville,” the man says levelly, taking a swig of wine. “To Captain Treville. You Captain Treville?

Athos’ heart lurches: Frémanville, the next village on from Avernes, the place that he and d’Artagnan had visited only yesterday.

“No but I need that message,” Athos says, taking a step closer.

The man looks to Serge as if for confirmation. The old man nods and settles down on the bench, which seems to satisfy the messenger. 

“Here,” he says, reaching inside his jacket and withdrawing a crumpled piece of paper. “But I don’t want no trouble from Captain Treville for giving the message to someone else. And I still need paying.”

Athos has to take a moment to calm the surge of adrenaline so that he is actually able to focus on the words written on the paper. He recognises d’Artagnan’s sparse, careful hand.

_’Riding back with Porthos. It lied, it’s in Aramis. Chapelle de la Sainte Mère. Queen Anne. Baby. Be careful.’_

“So,” Serge says, pouring himself a cup of wine and clearly trying not to look as interested as he is, “What does it say?”

“If Treville sends word tell him I needed to leave, now,” Athos says, heading back out into the courtyard.

“But you just got ‘ere!” Serge says.

“And I still need paying!” shouts the messenger.

*

The sun is just beginning to set as Athos steps through the doors of the Chapelle de la Sainte Mère, the colours of the stained-glass windows just beginning to spark and glow with lowering light.

Athos wonders, idly, when he last ate. Or slept. The adrenaline is so insistent now he feels like he’s blurring, buzzing with the sensation.

The chapel is a small thing, not particularly ostentatious, but has been a favourite with Anne of Austria since she first came to the city, a lonely, fourteen year old wife to the young King of France. Athos has been here countless times in his duty as royal guard, watching as the Queen prayed silently before the small altar, the tall, slim windows.

It’s not Anne’s golden head bowed before the cross this time, though.

Aramis’s back stiffens as Athos walks down the aisle, and the things turns, cocks its head and smiles. Its eyes are black now, and in the half-light they look like nothing more than two dark holes in Aramis’ face.

Athos straightens against the force of the thing, all the pain and the hate and the grief that it throws at him. He swallows hard against memories that begin to rise, long dark hair and rough hemp rope about a neck, pale and slim. He thinks instead of Aramis, and Porthos, and d’Artagnan, and holds his faith in them, builds it like a barricade.

“You knew all along,” it says, inclining its head, “Well done.”

“Aramis is my brother,” Athos simply says.

The thing smiles, “So: what is your plan, now you’ve found me?” It looks at Athos through half-lidded eyes, completely at ease. “You do know I’m going to kill you, right here? I’ll have to keep it simple, unfortunately.”

“We wouldn’t want to make a mess for the Queen.”

“Oh,” the thing laughs, and holds a hand to its chest, “Well done indeed!”

Athos takes a step closer, wills his legs not to shake. "I did not think your kind could enter here.” 

"So that’s the plan,” the thing says, “Play for time. I see. Well,” it concedes, “My kind cannot. I can. Besides, I was born in a church, wasn’t I?” it says, flicking a glance towards Athos, “You saw it. A little more… _red_ than this one. ”

"Who are you, then?" Athos asks, tries to keep his voice steady.

"I have lots of names. But names are power, Olivier de la Fere. So don’t expect me to share mine with you.”

“Why not?” Athos takes another step closer, breathing deeply through his nose and pushing at the panic fluttering in his stomach, “We have plenty of time. You must know now that the Queen is not coming.”

“Not even to meet her lover?” the thing says, though it narrows its eyes and curls its lip at him.

“No.”

The thing watches him for a moment, before leaning back idly against the altar.

The force it levels at Athos almost knocks him off his feet this time, the fear and the hurt, chased swiftly by shame, huge and all-encompassing. He has to screw his eyes shut for a moment because it’s too much, it’s almost too much to bear. The desire to curl in on himself is overwhelming, but Athos bites down hard on his tongue, feels the sharp pain and the taste of blood in his mouth focussing him. Holding hard to every good thing he can think of, he _pushes_ back with all his might, sees the thing smile in surprise.

"That's how you get in, isn't it?” Athos says, when he can breathe deeper than a wild, fluttering gasp again, “Through the pain and the fear and the grief of our pasts? Well, look to me - you'll not find a man more full of darkness." He takes a step closer, spreads his arms a little, makes the words low and soft and inviting as he can. "Why not leave him? Come with me instead."

"Oh," the things sighs with Aramis' voice. It looks at him, assessing, and Athos' skin prickles beneath its hot gaze. "Delicious, I know. But I might still be able to work with this one."

"Besides, Olivier," it says, and Athos knows it likes the small involuntary flinch the name draws from him, "There's plenty here to feast on. Savoy," it says, drawing out the word as though relishing the way it tastes. "Isabelle. Porthos, and you, and d'Artagnan. Fear and shame and guilt and love all crushed up together. It's...beautiful." 

The things smiles, black eyes shining. "So wasted on you humans, all this...feeling."

"His faith adds a certain sweetness to the whole thing too. It's almost a shame," it continues, flipping idly through the pages of the bible lying upon the table. It studies its hands, the fine blue veins there that seem to bulge out, as though his arm is flexed tight. "It won't be long now."

"You can't stay in him," Athos says, tries not to make it sound like a question, tries not to let the relief show there.

"Hmm," the thing agrees, “He’s burning up." 

Any relief Athos may have felt turns quickly to ice at that. It shrugs Aramis' shoulders. "But it won't be a problem. I'll find a more permanent solution, soon. Why would I settle for a King's Musketeer when a King's _child_ is there for the taking?"

It licks its lips and smiles, all teeth. "It's better when they're younger - they grow to fit you."

Athos is suddenly aware of a presence behind him, the sound of movement. “Ah!” the thing calls, “Good of you to join our little party!" Athos turns as it smiles past him, sees the tall figure of the Cardinal behind him.

“Get behind me Satan…” the Cardinal mumbles, taking a step closer. His hands flap at his robes for the heavy gold cross about his neck, holding it before him as he advances slowly.

“Oh, Satan’s not here too, is he?” the thing says, laughing, “I’m really not fond of sharing.”

“Why don’t you-”

"Enough, Oliv...Athos," the thing snaps, drumming its fingers lightly on the page of the bible. It frowns, for the barest hint of a moment, a ghost of uncertainty flickering across its face. "You’re boring me. Both of you."

Athos schools his face, feels the hot rush of gratitude because he knows now, that Aramis is still in there.

Athos, he’d said. Olivier and Olivier and Olivier because it knew the place it struck in his heart but then…. _Athos_. That one word, truer than any name his parents gave him. The drumming fingers, the open book, just a little thing, too small perhaps for it to notice what it had told him, what _Aramis_ had told him.

“What do you expect-” 

Athos doesn’t let the Cardinal finish speaking, has launched himself at Aramis before the thing has time to turn its attention away from the other man.

He slams it with his body and before they hit the floor he’s managed to fumble Aramis’ blade from its sheath. Flinging it off to the side, he has a moment to register the noise as it clatters against the pulpit before the thing slams its head viciously into his. His vision blurring for a moment, Athos rolls sideways, but the thing grabs him by the hair and pulls before he can move much further away.

It flings him, hard against the ground with a strength that is so much more than Aramis alone. A boot slams into his chest, his shoulder, feels ribs crack and something in his right shoulder shift with a pain that comes shrieking through him.

It stops and hovers above him, levelling its gaze of fear and pain on him again until Athos feels himself gasp, his heart thudding horrible in his chest, wanting nothing more than to curl in on himself until oblivion takes him. 

“Don’t try it,” it snaps, attention shifting to the Cardinal, who has moved closer. Athos takes a moment to breathe out of the things gaze, swiping at a nose that he’s sure must be broken, hand coming away bloody.

The Cardinal seems to tremor under the flat black eyes of the thing, leaning heavily against a pew and breathing harshly through his nose, but he stands steadfast and the thing takes a curious step towards him. 

"Strong, aren't you? Or perhaps you just don't _feel_ all that much."

The distraction is enough for Athos to reach blindly above him for the book and fling it through Aramis’ legs. It skids across the tiled floor and comes to a stop at the Cardinal’s feet.

He’s reached for it before the thing has a chance to react, and Athos is absurdly glad that while the Cardinal may not be a good or trustworthy man he is _clever._ He begins to read from the book, the yellow pages marked red with Athos’ bloody fingerprints. His voice rises, commanding and cold.

“ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio…_ ”

The thing throws back its head and laughs, long and loud and cruel.

“ _...infernalis adversarii, exorcizamus te. Ergo draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica adjuramus te nomine…_ ”

“It’s not going to work,” The thing calls. “What is that? Just words. You don’t know me. You don’t know this man,” it says, opening wide it’s arms, “You don’t _care._ ”

The Cardinal takes a shuddering breath.

“A man of God,” the thing scoffs, taking a step towards the Cardinal. It draws out Aramis’ pistol and levels it at him, “Just a man, all meat and blood and marrow."

Athos is glad the thing has its back turned to him, because he doesn’t think he could look at Aramis’ eyes, knows all he will see there is black and empty. _Forgive me_ , he thinks, the words at the back of his throat almost choking him because he wants so much to speak them aloud, so that Aramis might hear them, somewhere inside, and understand. 

His finger contracts around the trigger of his own pistol even as he swings the barrel up, and he’s close enough for the force to knock the thing to the ground.

It crumples, the blood pooling on the ornate tiles, wound blooming red and dark from the leather of Aramis’ coat.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a monster - no pun intended - a real monster. I am kind of all over the place with RL stuff at the moment so I hope it makes some kind of sense!
> 
> One chapter left!


	7. Into That Good Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of all things.

Porthos leans heavily against d’Artagnan as he takes the steps, slowly, willing one foot in front of the other. The effort in lifting his legs is almost too much and he stumbles, catching himself against the stone wall.

D’Artagnan curses and tries to take more of his weight but Porthos knows they’re both exhausted. The heavy wooden door in front of them seems a mile away, and with each step he can feel his heart constricting, the cold sweat of fear beading against his forehead.

It’s a curiously familiar sensation, as he nears the darkness once more. It’s like stepping back into a room on fire after you’ve just been pulled out, and it’s almost too much to bear.

A gunshot cracks out, ringing against the stone walls, and Porthos tightens his grip on d’Artagnan’s arm. They heft each other up the last few steps and stumble through the portico into the nave of the Chapelle de la Sainte Mère.

There’s a laugh from somewhere near the altar, a bright sound of mirth, whip thin and cruel. “You shot him!” 

Porthos looks around desperately, and notices the heap on the floor that is Aramis. The thing gets to its feet easily.

“And let’s be clear,” it says, “It was Aramis that you shot, not me.” 

The thing stands and twists, peering over its shoulder in an attempt to see the wound in its back. It prods a finger in the hole at the center of the blood, wiggles it a little.

“I don’t think I like you very much, Olivier,” it says, kneeling down on the floor near the dais.

“Athos!” d’Artagnan shouts. Before Porthos has a second to react the young man is sprinting down the aisle, past the dark shape of the Cardinal hunched and gasping. Porthos braces himself against a pew and can only watch helplessly as the thing turns its attention towards d’Artagnan.

The boy drops like a stone, gasping and curling in on himself. It’s angry now, Porthos can feel it like lightning crackling in the dusty air of the church, something bitter and metallic and snapping. It builds inside the church, wave upon wave, and Porthos knows all the fear and pain it’s projecting is expanding inside the vaulted room, stronger than before in its fury.

He grits his teeth against it, feeling a curious sort of numbness, like a wound still ragged and gaping but with all the nerves blasted away. He knows he’s dying, knows in an abstract sort of way that he is in pain, but everything is too raw for him to feel much.

Its attention flickers to him, for an instant, and the thing laughs dismissively as he clutches the pew, barely able to hold himself up. And then it turns towards Athos, lying at its feet, and wraps Aramis’ long fingers about the other man’s throat.

Everything is curiously still as Porthos pulls himself forward, muffled, like being underwater. The only sound is Athos’ ragged gasps, the odd harsh scuff against the tiled floor as he kicks and jerks in its grasp, trying to pry hard fingers from around his throat. “Don’t tell me you haven’t longed for this, secretly,” Porthos hears it croon at the other man.

Nearing the crumpled forms of the Cardinal and d’Artagnan he can see a book, marked red with bloody fingerprints. The Cardinal sees Porthos hunched above him and flails blindly at the book, pushing it towards him.

Something snaps inside of Porthos, and he wonders if it’s his heart breaking, here at the end. _Soon and bloody and by my hand,_ he thinks, _Soon and bloody and by my hand._

He doesn’t have the energy to bend down, to lift the book, just crumples to his hands and knees between the two men and starts to read, stumbling and breathless.

_”Exorcizamus omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potesta, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii…”_

The thing twists its head to look at him. Athos has almost stopped flailing now, the odd jerk of his leg the only sign that he is still alive. The horrible rasping rattle for breath makes Porthos want to vomit. The thing’s smile falters as it regards Porthos, black eyes narrowing.

Porthos lets himself smile.

“Asmodeus _exorcizamus te. Ergo draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica,_ ” he says, because that thing was in him and he knows it. It burns inside him with horror like something hot and bright that hurts to even think about but he knows it as sure as he knows himself, and he knows its _name_.

“No,” it bites, “I should have killed you. No.” 

It legs go of Athos’ throat with a start, and seems to grow smaller, hunching in on itself. At Porthos’ feet D’Artagnan uncoils, raises himself up enough to lean against him.

“ _Exorcizamus te_ , Asmodeus!” Porthos shouts, the words ripping harshly from his throat, tasting old and strange and dusty.

The thing growls, face distorted, and it doesn't look like Aramis any more at all, thank God. It jerks, head twitching, and burbles out a laugh, broken and cruel.

Suddenly its mouth is thrown wide and Porthos knows this part, can feel his own jaw ache with the memory of the sheer force of it.

The thing slams outwards, foul and black and worming its way from Aramis' mouth, but something is wrong: it goes still, the smoke retreating, and suddenly the face eases back into that of their friend, but this time it's ashen and shot through with pain. 

"Now..." Aramis stutters, forcing the words through gritted teeth, "....now..."

Porthos can feel himself shaking, and he leans heavily on d'Artagnan for support. He wants to run to Aramis' side, to hold him, but it's still in there, the thing is still there and Porthos is afraid. He doesn't want to go near it, feels himself recoil at the thought of being anywhere close to that horrid darkness. The way it felt to have it inside every pore and vein of him is still too raw.

It hits with a rush that this is what Aramis is feeling, right now, that awful blankness inside him like a shudder of suffocating fog, holding him down as if he was nothing, as if the battleground was not inside his own mind and heart and body. And there’s a lurch of sickness to think how much this is costing his friend: to push back long enough to speak his own words from his own mouth, to have stopped it from crushing Athos’ windpipe beneath Aramis’ own fingers must almost be too much to bear.

Aramis' eyes are flickering black to brown and back again with dizzying speed, and he doubles over with a lurch, clutching his stomach. The thing retches from his mouth trying to free itself but Aramis hauls it back in again, over and over.

"Porthos," he begs from the floor, and it's a whisper, harsh and desperate as the rattle of a dying man's breath. The blood is stark against the white of his teeth, the little wisps of black smoke squirming behind them, and he’s crying now, shaking with the effort. " _Now._ "

The Cardinal pulls himself up and leans heavily against the pew beside Porthos, looks at him with an expression that he can’t quite fathom. The man nods once, tightly. “You care,” he rasps, and Porthos is not quite sure what he means but there’s something certain in his eyes, a grudging kind of respect. “So say it like you mean it.”

D’Artagnan leans against him, breathing hard, and Porthos draws some sort of strength from the simple contact. The boy picks up the bible with hands he’s trying desperately to keep from shaking, and Porthos grabs it too, bracing it between them.

He shudders in a breath and tries to keep his voice level. 

“ _Adjuramus te nomine_ Asmodeus, _exorcizamus te_ Asmodeus, _ad te, et inferni,_ Asmodeus!”

There’s a shudder that rings through the church like a bell, and it feels suddenly as if all the air in the room is being sucked into the centre, into where Aramis lies jerking and writhing against the hard stone floor. Porthos grunts and tries to draw a breath, but the pressure is too great and his head begins to pound, his nose streaming blood. He feels d’Artagnan stagger next to him, curling in around himself in pain once more. A high-pitched sound builds and builds until Porthos can barely make out Aramis’ screams anymore against the buzzing slice of noise that’s building in his ears, in his head.

Just as the world is beginning to haze and spin and Porthos is sure he’s going to black out, there’s a moment of silence, as if all the noise and clamour of the world had been consumed utterly. It rocks Porthos, this sudden void, and then the blast rips outwards like a wave and he feels his back meet the ground hard, d’Artagnan thrown into him by the force. All the windows of the church shatter outwards in a bright smash of tinkling glass.

It’s gone, he knows that in an instant because he feels like he can breathe again, for the first time in days. He shifts, d’Artagnan uncurling beside him, coughing harshly. The smooth wood of a pew lies solid and steady under his hand as he tries to pull himself upwards, enough to see the middle of the room.

Athos is dragging himself across the floor. His face is ashen and grey, his left shoulder hunched up and held to his body in a way that says it’s probably dislocated. He pulls himself over to the man lying still on the ground, and Porthos holds his breath, trying to think of a prayer, any prayer. All that comes to mind is the tangled latin of the exorcism and he doesn’t want to think about that, ever again.

D’Artagnan raises himself on shaking legs and stoops to help Porthos stand. The Cardinal gets to his feet, grey faced.

Beside Aramis, Athos makes a noise, low and tight and desperate, and Porthos is glad for d’Artagnan beside him, holding him up as the world comes crashing down around him.

*  
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D’Artagnan helps lower Athos into the chair with a wince, the older man leaning heavily against him.

"Stay, if you wish?" Athos says quietly. "No more secrets. If the Cardinal comments I shall insist."

"It's alright,” d’Artagnan says, though he seems pleased to have been asked, “I think I'd rather leave all this to you. For now."

"I wish I has been as wise as you at your age," Athos smiles grimly. And then, putting a hand on d’Artagnan’s retreating arm, “You will make a very fine leader, one day.”

The door has just closed behind the younger man when the Cardinal appears through a door at the back of the room, crossing to his desk with a nod of acknowledgement for Athos.

“You realise I don’t normally grant an audience to a simple King’s Musketeer like this?”

“I thought, given the circumstances…” Athos says, voice still a little raw and husky as the bruised handspans and vivid fingerprints around his throat begin to heal. 

He matches the Cardinal’s gaze and doesn’t blink until the other man looks down, and shuffles the papers on his desk. He doesn’t look uncomfortable, because the Cardinal never looks uncomfortable, but Athos knows at least that he has a right to be here.

“Your Eminence, there are some...unresolved issues, regarding the incident last week.” He uses the word with just a glimmer of sarcasm, since that’s how Treville says the Cardinal has been referring to what happened in the church.

The Cardinal looks at Athos long and hard, before giving the barest hint of a nod.

Athos knows he shouldn’t be here, that asking questions of this man, about this matter, could be dangerous indeed. He knows that he’s only here right now because Treville does not know it, and the moment he does he’s going to get the dressing down of his life.

But the unresolved questions sit fat and heavy in his mind, and he knows it’s not just the residual fear and the worry and the horror of the whole thing that has kept him from getting any more than a few hours sleep since that evening in the church, but the questions, too.

How could the cardinal possess such books that spoke of summoning, and yet not know that the exorcism to banish it lay in a mere bible? Had Aramis not managed to show Athos the page, the demon would have succeeded, taken the future King of France as its own, killed them all.

But would it, Athos thinks, have killed them _all?_

He steadies himself, taking great care not to let the Cardinal see anything past his stony face.

“I have been wondering: how did the Comte de Martineau come to even know of your book’s existence?” Athos asks, tries to make his voice as flat as possible and choosing his words carefully.

The cardinal narrows his eyes at Athos, just slightly. It’s an impertinent question he knows, but Athos feels he is owed it. "I'm afraid I cannot say,” the Cardinal states, “ I have so many books, after all. It is a simple thing for one to be misplaced."

"I'm quite sure," Athos agrees, and the straight-faced, wide-eyed confidence that was taught to him as the Comte de la Fere since he was a boy pays off now.

"I am only grateful that Aramis was able to show us the words to stop the thing, and in a mere bible," Athos says.

"Do you think the bible a mere book, then?” The Cardinal smiles grimly, “Well. In the end it seems it is not the words but the one who speaks them who holds the power.” 

"In any case, it would have been helpful if we could have known the true extent of the threat," Athos says after a moment, choosing his words carefully.

"You did well enough. The threat, as you put it, has been dealt with."

"Many people died."

"People die all the time."

Athos swallows tightly against the words - his own, echoed back at him.

“Aramis is-”

“Monsieur Aramis is a King’s Musketeer. If he has given his life for France I am sure it was done willingly.”

Athos takes a moment, schools his features.

"How did you know to come back to the chapel?" 

The cardinal smiles, cooly, but Athos can see his patience is waning. "I have my little birds, they speak of such things. Like secret trysts planned in chapels.” His pale-eyed gaze is steady and unblinking. “They tell me lots of things, about all kinds of people.”

Athos keeps his face blank as he answers. "It is in a bird's nature to sing," Athos says, dismissively, "Especially when it concerns individuals of such high standing. Their majesties. Or perhaps you, your Eminence."

The Cardinal quirks a lip at him in something that might be a smile. "Yes, but a song is just words, and words are not to be believed without something more...solid. Some token perhaps, a gift given, like a crucifix..."

"Yes," Athos agrees calmly, "Or a book. 

The Cardinal takes a moment to speak, though Athos notices the quick flash of anger in his eyes for the barest moment.

"Indeed," the cardinal says, steepling his fingers.

“The Comte de Martineau was to be pitied,” Athos says, rising slowly to his feet, leaning heavily on the arms of the chair to do so. “Only a very desperate man could think to unleash such a thing on the world and hope to control it.”

“Indeed,” the Cardinal agrees again. He stares at Athos a little longer before nodding slightly. 

Athos walks from the room as steadily as he can, keeping his back straight and trying not to limp too much. It’s only once outside the doors that he slumps heavily into d’Artagnan, and lets the boy help him slowly from the Palais de Cardinal.

  
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*  


Epilogue

Porthos leans to brush a stray curl of hair from where it’s splayed against Aramis’ cheek, the bones there standing out more than he remembers them for a long time. “Need to eat something for me, yeah?” he says, trying to keep his voice low and even because the other man doesn’t seem to like the noise.

He fills another spoonful of broth and bumps it against Aramis’ mouth. “Come on.”

The other man parts his lips, just slightly, but there’s no light of acknowledgment in the eyes that stare out, past the solid wall into nothingness.

“Good man,” Porthos says, watching Aramis’ throat bob as he swallows.

The door creaks behind him and Porthos turns with a start, feeling his heart lurch wildly in his throat.

“Just us. Sorry,” d’Artagnan says sheepishly, moving through the door with Athos leaning heavily against his shoulder. The older man’s arm is bandaged tight against his side, and his face and throat are a mess of purpled bruises, just starting to yellow out as they heal.

“Any change?” Athos asks.

Porthos swallows, can’t bring himself to say anything. Athos crosses to sit on the low bench beside Aramis’ bed and nods tightly, while d’Artagnan leans against the wall with a grunt. He looks exhausted, and Porthos knows he hasn’t slept much in days. None of them have.

“I think he might have seen me, this morning. You know, really looked at me. I think. Maybe,” Porthos says, hating the false note of hope in his voice even as he speaks the words.

Athos smiles, though it doesn’t look real. “That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

The silence settles around them, the steady in-and-out of Aramis’ breath the only noise in the room, and Porthos tries to tell himself that’s something, that’s something _good_. But having Aramis in the room with them and so utterly distant is so strange it sparks something inside of him, makes him feel as powerless and impotent as he did when that thing was sitting inside of him.

“I thought it would never be that bad again, after Savoy,” Porthos says, after a while. He fiddles with the spoon in the bowl, unsure he can get the words out if he has to look at Athos or d’Artagnan, or Aramis. “Told him ‘things can only get better’. Promised him. What a fuckin’ joke.” Porthos laughs, but it’s not funny, and he wonders vaguely if anything ever will be again.

Athos puts his head into his uninjured hand and cards his fingers through his hair, and his words are muffled and tired when he speaks, voice still a little husked and dry from his bruised throat. “I’m sorry, for so many things. I should have told you all my orders. I should have told you about Aramis and...the Queen. I thought I was protecting you. You too, d’Artagnan.”

“Probably were,” Porthos says. “I don’t know.” D’artagnan makes a noise of agreement.

“But it used it, to tear us apart,” Athos continues.

“It would have found something. We’re all a bit...broken, aren’t we?”

Athos closes his eyes and nods, once.

“But don’t think I’m not going to kick his arse the moment he gets better,” Porthos says, trying for humour.

“How’s his wound?” d’Artagnan asks, after a while. 

“Doing fine. Athos is getting good at shootin’ his friends in non-lethal places.”

“A man needs hobbies.”

There’s a huff of breath like a laugh from the bed, and Porthos turns in shock.

“Did he just..?”

“I think he did.”

Aramis continues to stare out into nothing, but there’s a flutter of eyelashes that’s nothing like the slow, sparse blinking of before. His fingers twitch, just slightly, and it’s only then that Porthos realises he’s gripping the other man’s hand in his own. He looks down in surprise, and when his gaze goes back to Aramis he’s watching him, hazy but _there_ , present in a way he hasn’t been for some time.

A rush of longing rises up in Porthos, and he realises how much he has missed his friend.

The man’s lips move, mumbling slightly, and there’s a breath that’s almost like a word, slurred and quiet and utterly perfect.

“Hello yourself,” Porthos says, around the hot lump in his throat.

All he can do is squeeze Aramis’ hand as he feels Athos sag and lean into his shoulder and d’Artagnan laugh, long and bright beside him.

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa mama! I’m not quite sure how this weird little hell-baby grew from literally one scene that I wrote with no context whatsoever into an actual full blown multi-chapter fic. I have never written anything even remotely this involved or long or crazy, that needed actually plotting and notes and maps to make work, the majority of which came to me on tube journeys to and from work. Commuters looking over my shoulder as I hastily made notes on my phone must have thought I was a right proper loony. I hope it all makes sense, as un-beta'd and sprawling as it is. It's not perfect but writing it has been a lot of fun.
> 
> Quickly I have to say: geography/travel times are guessed at here, probably not accurate. Also there's no way that exorcism would be in a bible but, eh, creative liberties.
> 
> I feel a little bad about how marginalised d'Artagnan was in this story. I'll make it up to him.
> 
>  
> 
> Thankyou so much to everyone who’s read and commented, you have no idea what it means to me, really. Those of you who write fic: I read it and I love it and to have you say nice things about my writing is especially wonderful. What an awesome fandom we are.

**Author's Note:**

> Title and chapter titles from Dylan Thomas' _Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night_. I've never written anything this long before. Comments hugely appreciated in helping me pilot this swerving juggernaut of I don't even know what.


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